Sylva
by vega2
Summary: Who killed Sylva Sidney, and why? Michael and Kitt must find the answer before it is too late.


Knight Rider characters copyright Glen A. Larson  
  
A big thank you to Tomy my Beta Reader and Asp for his help.  
  
T3E is a figment of my imagination; if a company exists by that name it was unintentional.  
  
Sylva copyright L. Borchers 2002  
  
  
  
  
  
Sylva  
  
By Vega  
  
  
  
Heavy fog rolled in over the San Francisco Bay area drenching the city in its cold, damp grip. Michael stood silently in the shadows watching the police cover the body of a young woman with a black tarp. They worked wordlessly, as a fog horn atop the Golden Gate Bridge tower, miles away, sent a forlorn warning in the sad night. Even in death she was beautiful. As he walked back to the car he couldn't get the image of her out of his mind. Who was she? Why was she here in this garbage strewn alleyway in the seediest part of town? A single light bulb in the doorway of a run down Chinese restaurant dimly lit the fragile figure through the dense fog. She wore a white silk pantsuit and black halter top. Her long brown hair, dampened by the fog, was brushed back from her face, her brown eyes wide open, staring lifelessly into the night. Her arms were folded over her chest, her legs crossed at the ankles. He couldn't shake the feeling that she had been posed in death.  
  
"Michael, are you all right?" Kitt asked as Michael slid into the driver's seat.  
  
"No," Michael answered honestly. The woman's death had shaken him badly. Why, he wasn't sure. She was a complete stranger to him. He had seen her for the first time twenty minutes ago when he came across her body as he chased Clarence Epps down Bryant Street and through the back alleyways of Front Street. Epps was a small time drug runner along the San Francisco waterfront. But he had connections. Connections Michael needed to catch Kevin Distal, a main conduit to the drug trade along the wharf.  
  
But all that was forgotten as Michael watched the Corner's wagon pull into the alley to load the body into the back. Just another Jane Doe. But she was more than that. She was someone's daughter, perhaps a wife, a mother… So many possibilities, and yet for the moment she was no one.  
  
"How did she die, Kitt?" Michael asked. He saw no telltale injuries on her body. No blood.  
  
"I'm not sure Michael. I scanned her body for injuries. There were none."  
  
"Drugs?"  
  
"Without a blood sample I couldn't say. But Michael, she had been laying there for quite some time"  
  
"How long?"  
  
"The ground beneath her is dry. I checked the weather report, the fog moved in at four twenty this afternoon. Without access to the body to check liver temperature and lividity I can only make a guesstimate"  
  
"Come on Kitt, spit it out."  
  
"Twelve hours."  
  
"Twelve hours." Michael watched the corners lift her fragile body into a body bag and zip it up. "Someone should be missing her by now." He said softly, overwhelmed by the finality of it. No one should have to die alone like that. "I guess it's too much to ask for an ID."  
  
"I checked with the DMV."  
  
"And…?"  
  
"I found a match. Her name was Sylva Sidney."  
  
"Sylva Sidney." Michael played with the name, it sounded right for her. "Who was she, Kitt?"  
  
"DMV only gives height weight and address."  
  
"I'll take the address."  
  
"Why?" he asked. It was a simple question. With all the death and depravity Michael encountered over the years, why would this one woman cause him so much angst? She was, in reality, just another victim of foul play. It was, unfortunately, a part of their job. They seldom met people who were happy and content. They helped the oppressed, the down trodden. They appeared on the scene after all else had failed. Bonnie had often expressed her concerns about Michael barreling into one explosive situation after another. Putting the obvious physical concerns aside, she worried about his mental state. There was just so much a person could take. So why was this young woman, a stranger, so important to him?  
  
"No one deserves to die alone like that. Someone killed her. Snuffed the life out of her then posed her for the world to see. I'm going to find that sick bastard and make him pay."  
  
"Perhaps you should rest first," Kitt suggested. "it's late. There's nothing you can do at this hour. By the morning the police may have the case solved."  
  
"Yea, right." He mumbled sarcastically.  
  
"Michael, you've been on stakeout all day and half the night, you're exhausted. You'll be no good to anyone, including that young woman, if you are dead tired in the morning. Rest, just for a few hours. I'll do a through background on her while you sleep."  
  
Michael nodded. Kitt was right. It was past two A.M. The woman's body would be taken to the morgue and tagged as a Jane Doe. Nothing would happen until the morning.  
  
Kitt quietly pulled away from the crime scene and headed toward The Great Highway. Hugging the Pacific Ocean it was lined with several miles of sand dunes separating the waves from the road, some high enough to hide the black Trans Am for the remainder of the night.  
  
Michael was asleep by the time Kitt pulled off the highway and nestled in between two tall dunes, further hidden from prying eyes by the heavy fog layer that hovered on shore almost every night this time of year. Checking Michael's vitals once more and satisfied that his partner was resting somewhat comfortably, Kitt went to work collecting all the data available on Sylva Sidney. He may not have understood Michael's obsession for the young woman but he was determined to present him with all the information possible.  
  
  
  
Michael awoke to the sound of waves crashing on shore just beyond the sand dunes that surrounded him. The sky was pale blue, the air filled with a fine mist as the wind caught the churning waves and blew the vapor inland. The sun had not yet risen as he pulled his seat up. He felt stiff and raunchy from sleeping in his clothes. Normally he slept soundly in Kitt's customized bucket seat, sometimes better here than in a fly by night motel, but the image of the woman lying in the dark alley kept reappearing in his dreams and he tossed and turned the entire four hours.  
  
"Good morning, Michael." Kitt's voice filled the cabin, the sound calming Michael's nerves immediately.  
  
"Morning, Kitt." He said around a huge yawn. "You got anything for me?"  
  
"Not a lot I'm afraid."  
  
"Anything will do at this point."  
  
The number two monitor blinked on and Sylva Sidney's driver's license appeared on the screen. "Sylva Sidney was twenty- four, she held a California driver's license but was born in Twin Rivers Texas. She lived with a roommate, Donna Myers, in Pacific Heights. Miss Myers reported her missing two days ago."  
  
"Two days? Boyfriend, parents, work… anyone else concerned about her disappearance?"  
  
"Her mother and father and one sibling still live in Twin Rivers. She was a freelance writer- photographer for a small, local newspaper. There was no report from them."  
  
"There wouldn't be. If she was freelance she could be gone for weeks on a story. Do you have an address on Donna Myers?"  
  
"Yes, but may I suggest you have breakfast and clean up first? You look like something the cat dragged in."  
  
Michael couldn't help but grin at the speaker box. Kitt had learned so many colloquialisms over the years. He was so far removed from the A.I. he met the first time, programmed with Devon's staunch British personality and Bonnie's naivety. Now he was an extension of Michael, but with a personality of his own that was emerging every day. He looked at the layer of sand that covered Kitt's hood. "I wouldn't talk if I were you, Pal. You could use a good car wash yourself."  
  
"Point taken. While you eat and change I'll find a nearby carwash. There's a small restaurant two point six miles down the road, I believe it is open for breakfast by now. I'll drop you off there."  
  
"All right. Kitt…?" Michael suddenly became very somber, "could you tell if she suffered before she died?"  
  
"I'm sorry, Michael, we won't know that until we find the cause of death."  
  
"Figured as much. Let's get out of here."  
  
The engine turned over by way of acknowledgment and Michael pulled out onto the Great Highway, merging with the few cars that were already on the road.  
  
  
  
After breakfast and a fresh set of clothes, Michael felt better. Being on the road so often, he had become an expert at washing, shaving and changing in gas station restrooms.  
  
He met Kitt outside the restaurant, fresh from the carwash, his black molecular bonded finish shining in the sunlight. "Where to first, Michael?" Kitt asked as Michael settled into his seat.  
  
"Donna Myers, Pal." As much as he hated the thought of intruding on her grief, he knew she might have answers that he could find no where else.  
  
"The course is already laid in," Kitt answered with a hint of pride.  
  
"Wise guy. You think you know me so well, huh?"  
  
"I do, Michael. But I must admit I am confused about one thing."  
  
"What's that, Pal?"  
  
"What is it about this young woman that has touched you so deeply? I know it's never easy when a young woman's life is ended so carelessly. But this was not the first, and sadly, not the last. And may I remind you that this is not even a Foundation case?"  
  
"I know, Pal. But this is something I have to do, for myself."  
  
There was a long silence in the cabin as Kitt absorbed the concept. He had come so far in a short time, from programmed computer to sentient A.I. And yet there was still so much to learn about human nature. Michael was always an enigma. Sometimes brash, sometimes self effacing, other times funny and care free, but always hiding his deepest emotions from everyone but a selected few. No one on the outside world knew of his rebirth, the agony, emotionally and physically, that he went through. Kitt was proud that Michael called him friend, and meant it. But it still left him bewildered when Michael became consumed by a case. Especially when there was no explanation, other than emotion that drove him on.  
  
"I may not understand fully, but I will help you all that I can."  
  
"Thanks, Pal. Now, tell me everything you know about Donna Myers."  
  
Michael pulled out of the parking lot and headed into the city, easily negotiating the steep San Francisco hills.  
  
"Donna Myers, age twenty six," Kitt began the linty of facts so important in the beginning of any case. "She's been employed by United Airlines for five years. She has been working the San Francisco to Hong Kong route for seven months. Her work record has been exemplary. She has never been cited or arrested. She and Sylva Sidney signed a two year lease on their present house, which is up in two months."  
  
"Expensive digs. Pacific Heights is not exactly your low end rent district. They both must have a tidy paycheck."  
  
"They pay three thousand a month." Kitt stopped at the top of Bay Street and parked in front of a perfectly maintained old Victorian house. Built after the 1906 earthquake, these old houses paid homage to a by gone day. To his left, Michael could see an unobstructed view of the Bay and Alcatraz.  
  
"And well worth every penny." Michael whistled. "Anything else?"  
  
"Nothing. Exceedingly unremarkable in fact."  
  
  
  
Exceedingly unremarkable was not what Michael thought as the front door opened. Donna Myers was stunning in every way. And yet there was not one thing about her that was extraordinary in itself. Perhaps it was the way she stood in the doorway, her pale, blue eyes red and swollen from crying; a small stuffed dog clenched in her hands. Her blonde hair cut short framing porcelain, white skin. She still wore a faded blue terry cloth robe.  
  
"Miss Myers?" Michael felt terribly guilty, invading her privacy at a time like this. She should have had the time to mourn in peace, to put together the pieces of her life in privacy. But he needed answers. He could not not pursue this.  
  
"I've already talked to the police," she said wearily. "I have nothing more to say."  
  
"I'm not with the police department." He said pulling out his I.D.  
  
Suspicion clouded her face. "Press? If you are, get the hell out of here." She began to close the door.  
  
"I'm not with the Press either, Miss Myers." Michael put his shoulder against the door, careful not to scare her. "My name is Michael Knight. I work for an organization called The Foundation For Law And Government. I know this is a rough time for you, but I'd like to ask you a few questions."  
  
"Why?"  
  
Michael took a deep breath, trying to get through the moment. This was far harder than most. He always hated talking to the friends and relatives of victims. As a police officer he had been taught to be objective, not to become emotionally involved. It was the only way to survive. But he couldn't be objective this time. Sylva Sidney had struck a cord that he could not ignore. "I was the one who found her body last night."  
  
The statement rocked Donna Myers back on her heels. Michael lunged forward grabbing her in his arms and leading her into the living room, to a sofa facing a picture window overlooking the Bay. A packet of pictures lay on the end table, snapshots of her and Sylva together, laughing and posing in front of a dozen San Francisco landmarks.  
  
"Are you all right?" he asked gently, "Can I call someone for you?"  
  
She shook her head, "No, I'm alright."  
  
"Are you sure? A friend, a relative? Someone who could…"  
  
"I'm fine. I just need a minute…"  
  
Michael nodded, turning to look out the window. The view was spectacular. Sail boats began appearing on the glistening water, catching the gentle morning breeze. By the afternoon only the heartiest of boats and sailors could match the strong wind and currents. The sound of a cable car bell rang somewhere on the streets below. Everything seemed for peaceful, so natural. How could tragedy co-exist with such beauty?  
  
"You know," Donna said between sniffles, "that the police think she died of a drug overdose?"  
  
Michael turned back slowly. "I heard." He dreaded the next question, but it had to be asked. "Was she a user?"  
  
Donna whipped her head up, her lips drawn into a tight line, "No. She never used. Neither of us did. She wrote too many stories about losers who did." She took a deep breath, trying to compose herself. "Did you know Sylva?"  
  
Michael shook his head.  
  
"Then why the interest, Mr. Knight?"  
  
"Michael, please." He picked up one of the snapshots. "To be honest with you, I don't know. I guess I just feel an obligation since I found her. And I want to help."  
  
"There's nothing you can do."  
  
"I can make sure her death doesn't get swept under the carpet." He didn't want to tell her, just yet, about his thoughts when he first found the body. How she had been posed, left in the dark to stare lifelessly into to the black night.  
  
She reached up and snatched the pictures from his hand, "I appreciate your concern, but I know the system. Once the police decide on a cause of death it would take an act of God to change their minds."  
  
"It doesn't make you mad that they have labeled her a drug addict? That the last thing she will be remembered for is dying alone in an alleyway from an overdose?"  
  
"Of course it makes me mad." She snapped, her grief turning to anger, "It makes me damn mad. But I'm just one person. I can't change the system."  
  
"You'd be surprised. One person can make a difference."  
  
She wiped angrily at the tears that continued to roll down her cheeks.  
  
"And," he knelt down in front of her squeezing her trembling hands between his, his fingers brushing the stuffed animal she still clutched in her hand, Sylva's stuffed animal, "there's two of us now. And I have a whole hell of a lot of people behind me. If you're willing to fight, that is."  
  
She stared him, "You really mean it?"  
  
He smiled gently, "I really mean it. We'll find who did it and why, I promise." He kneeled there for a long moment, knowing it was what they both needed. Now," he stood up, "I have a few things I have to take care of, gives you time to freshen up and get dressed. When I get back I want to know everything about Sylva, everything. There is an answer here. Together we'll find it."  
  
  
  
Donna sat motionless on the couch watching Michael Knight through the picture window disappear into his black Tans Am and pull away from the curb. She wasn't sure if she was ready to begin a new fight. Sylva was the fighter, not her. Sylva was always on a crusade of some kind. The one who thrived on adventure, loved to skirt around the dangerous. That was what made her such a good reporter. But Donna was satisfied in her own life. She had a job she liked, found all the excitement she needed as a flight attendant. Everything was perfect until there was a knock at her door at six A.M. this morning. A uniformed Police Officer stood in the doorway. She could hardly remember what he said, shock had settled in the moment she saw his face. Sylva had been found near the wharf, an apparent overdose.  
  
The words echoed in her mind bringing stinging tears to her eyes again. Sylva didn't do drugs, they were too close for her not to know that. When Donna left on her Hong Kong run four days ago Sylva had said that she was onto something big. That she was ready to drop the bomb. San Francisco would never be the same after her story broke. Donna remembered the fire in Sylva's eyes. But, her biggest story cost her her life.  
  
Now the question was, was Donna ready to put her life on the line? She glanced over at the end table and saw the snapshots of her and Sylva. She remembered that day. Sylva's little sister spent the weekend with them. They showed her all the sights. Did all the touristy things. She remembered how much Stacy adored her big sister, how excited Sylva was when she found that Stacy had joined the high school newspaper. Stacy was going to be a reporter just like Sylva.  
  
"Damn it!" She quickly shuffled through the pictures until she found the one she wanted. A snapshot of her, Sylva and Stacy posing on the observation parking lot of the Golden Gate Bridge, the orange towers gleaming behind them in the afternoon sun as the three of them laughed hysterically. She still remembered the stunned look on the Chinese tourist's face as she asked in perfect Chinese if he would mind taking a picture of them. He had quipped that he never thought he would be taking pictures of American tourists in America. That had been the perfect day. Now it seemed a lifetime ago. What was she going to tell Stacy? How was she going to explain it to Sylva's Mother and Father? She sank back into the couch, the snapshot sliding out of her hand. "Damn you Sylva, why? Why...?"  
  
  
  
"Michael, Devon's been calling." Kitt said as they pulled away from the curb and headed down the steep street toward the Mission District.  
  
"What did you tell him?"  
  
"The truth. You were following a lead. I just didn't tell him concerning what."  
  
"Thanks, Pal. You better patch me through," he sighed, "might as well get this over with now."  
  
Michael punched one of a series of buttons on the overhead strip between the T-Tops and the monitor came to life, a very disgruntled Devon Miles appearing on the screen.  
  
"Michael, it's been twenty-four hours since we last heard from you."  
  
"Sorry about that, Devon, I've been busy."  
  
"Did Clarence Epps lead you to Kevin Distal?"  
  
"No. I lost him near the wharf last night."  
  
"You lost him? Michael, do I have to remind you how important it is that we find Kevin Distal before he makes another buy? He is the main distributor in town, if we can shut him down then the local authorities can move in and shut down the smaller operations."  
  
"I know all that, Devon. It's just that something else came up."  
  
"Something else?" Michael could see Devon's jaw line tighten. "What could be more important than Kevin Distal?"  
  
"A young woman died last night, alone, in a filthy alleyway."  
  
"I'm sorry to hear that Michael, but of what concern is it to you? Did you know the young woman?"  
  
"No."  
  
"Then I fail to see…"  
  
"Devon," Michael snapped, "she was killed, left alone to die. No one deserves that."  
  
"I agree. But you have an assignment that takes precedence over everything. How did the young woman die?"  
  
"The police are calling it a drug overdose."  
  
Devon stared into the screen. Michael knew he was viewing him via a small camera mounted in the dash. What he saw in Michael's face must have given him pause, because his expression softened. "Michael, I'm sorry the young woman died. It is a tragedy when anyone dies before their time, be it drug overdose or…"  
  
"Devon, she was not a user. I spoke to her roommate. She was a freelance reporter on a case. I think she stuck her nose in where it didn't belong and got killed for it."  
  
"Then it's a police matter. Michael I understand your concern for this young woman, I applaud your desire to help her, but you have an assignment. After Distal is in custody, if you still want to pursue this, you will have my blessing. But for now, nothing, and I mean nothing, should be on your mind but capturing Distal. Have I made myself clear?"  
  
"Perfectly."  
  
"Very well then, I will expect a report this afternoon on Epps' new location." The screen turned black leaving Michael to stare at his own reflection in the blank screen. Anger turned to resolve as he promised himself nothing would stand in his way of finding Sylva's killer. Nothing. If it meant going against Devon Miles, then so be it. This was one he could not walk away from.  
  
"Michael…" Kitt asked hesitantly.  
  
"Hack into the local newspaper's computers, see if you can find out what Sylva Sidney was working on."  
  
"But Michael, you just heard Devon..."  
  
"I did."  
  
"Then…"  
  
"Kitt, I can't explain it, I just know that I have to do this."  
  
"You are walking a thin line," Kitt cautioned.  
  
"I know. But nothing says we can't work both cases at the same time. We can track Distal at night and…"  
  
"And when do you find time to sleep?"  
  
"Sleep…? What's that?"  
  
  
  
They headed back toward China Basin. Even in the light of day it was a grim place. Except for major crimes the Police steered clear of the area, already too thin in their ranks to take care of both the major part of the city and this little island unto itself. The dock area of any town was inherently dangerous. Ships not only brought in cargo but most of the sailors on the private merchant vessels were rough hardened men, who worked hard and played harder. The San Francisco Waterfront was no different. Once you got away from Fisherman's wharf and the tourist areas you were in no man's land.  
  
Michael couldn't understand what Sylva Sidney was doing in this area. Surely she wasn't naive enough to think that she could be safe. Or was her story so compelling that she found she had no choice? He was certain it was the latter.  
  
"Kitt, let's do a sweep of the area. See if anything stands out. Sylva was here for a reason, I want to know why."  
  
"I don't know if this helps," Kitt said, displaying a series of documents on the number two monitor, "according to the newspaper she requisitioned a wire and three thousand dollars."  
  
Michael stared at the screen, "For what?"  
  
"It doesn't say. Evidently she was their best reporter. What she wanted, she got."  
  
"Even three thousand dollars?"  
  
"I did some further checking; apparently it wasn't the first time that she asked for a large sum of money. She broke an underground immigration ring three years ago. Some high profile names were involved."  
  
"Gusty lady. I wonder what she was onto this time? Kitt, see if you can access her credit card accounts. Let's see if she dropped a large amount of her own money somewhere."  
  
"Good idea, Michael, I'll get right on it. And may I suggest that while we are in the area that we keep a look out for Epps? It would please Devon to no end."  
  
"You took the words right out of my mouth," Michael grinned.  
  
They slowly drove down narrow streets, some of the buildings still standing since San Francisco was rebuilt after the 1906 earthquake. The heavy fog had lifted, bathing the rest of the town in sparkling sunlight. But not here. Dilapidated store fronts with rusted door hinges and doorknobs from the constant exposure to the salt air and ever present fog seemed to be still standing by the grace of God, or incredible luck. Kitt scanned around the buildings, through the alleyways.  
  
"We're just spinning our wheels here, Pal. Let's come back tonight when there's a little more action."  
  
"Far be it for me to complain, but this place is not fit for a Pinto."  
  
"Kitt…." Michael warned, barely able to keep a straight face, "be nice."  
  
"I'm trying, Michael."  
  
  
  
They headed out onto Van Ness then up O'Farrell Street. The work day was about to begin and people swarmed along the streets heading for their offices. Stores prepared to open, street vendors made ready for the tourists. All unaware of the tragedy.  
  
"Michael, I have Sylva's credit card accounts."  
  
"Anything interesting?"  
  
The number two monitor came to life and a series of account numbers and sums scrolled down the screen. "Nothing unusual, just charges for restaurants, gas stations."  
  
"Hold it right there," Michael sat forward, tapping the screen. "What's that? Six hundred dollars for The San Francisco Gun and Hunting club? Kitt, check to see if she has a gun permit?"  
  
"Right away."  
  
They carefully negotiated their way through traffic and the mass of people spilling off the curbs as the street lights changed.  
  
"Michael, Sylva has had a gun permit for five years. But she petitioned for a concealed weapon permit two weeks ago."  
  
"What ever she was into, she knew it was dangerous. Let's see if Donna Myers can shed some light on this."  
  
"Despite the pedestrian traffic, going through China Town will be the fastest….Michael…Devon's calling."  
  
"Not now, Kitt. I don't want to deal with…"  
  
"You may want to take this one. He's has designated it Code Two."  
  
Michael sat up in his seat, alarmed. Code two meant the call required his immediate attention. "Patch him through, Pal."  
  
"Right away, Michael."  
  
Devon's face appeared on the screen. Michael wasn't sure how to read his boss's face. It seemed to be between worry and consternation.  
  
"What's up, Devon?"  
  
"Michael, we just received an emergency call from a young woman named Donna Myers. She sounded on the verge of hysteria. She said she must see you immediately."  
  
Michael felt Kitt take control, plotting the fasted course to Donna's house.  
  
"I hope the young woman has something to do with Epps and Distal. I made myself perfectly clear this morning…"  
  
"Sorry Devon, but I don't have time for this now."  
  
"I beg your pardon?"  
  
As they drove up Bay Street Michael saw three police units parked in front of Donna's house.  
  
"Michael," Devon's expression changed to controlled anger, "I will not accept this kind of insolence. I have made myself perfectly clear. You will drop everything else and…"  
  
"Sorry Devon, no can do. I'll be in touch." Michael jabbed at a switch on the overhead panel and the monitor went black.  
  
"Kitt?"  
  
"One of Miss Myers neighbors reported a disturbance at her house. She thought she heard Miss Myers screaming."  
  
Michael parked three doors down trying to remain as inconspicuous as possible. He was stopped twice by uniformed officers as he jogged up the front steps and again as he entered the living room.  
  
He was not prepared for the sight that awaited him. The living room had been ransacked. Furniture was upended and slashed open leaving stuffing strewn across the floor. Tables and lamps were tossed about, pictures were broken with the backs slashed open. Books were scattered everywhere theirs pages torn out and the spines split open. Whoever searched the place was professional and through.  
  
"You a friend of Miss Myers?" Michael turned to see a portly man in his late fifties standing behind him. Dressed in a light tan overcoat and gray Fedora he looked like a stereotype from the nineteen fifties noir movies.  
  
"Yea. Is Donna all right?"  
  
"I'm all right, Michael." Donna appeared out of her room, her hair wrapped in a towel, still wearing the same pale blue robe she had on earlier in the morning.  
  
He crossed the room carefully stepping around the mess. "What happened?" He asked pulling her into his arms.  
  
"I was taking a shower and these men…" She clung tighter to him, her body trembling. He hugged her closer, wrapping his arms around her. "They dragged me out of the shower and tore apart the bathroom then threw me back in while they did this." She looked at the chaos that was once her living room. "I could hear them turning over the furniture, breaking everything. Why, Michael?"  
  
"That's a good question." The Detective turned to Michael, Got an answer Mr…?"  
  
"Knight. Michael Knight. And you?"  
  
"Detective Bickford." He looked toward the door now guarded by a uniformed officer, "I noticed the door was unlocked when we got here."  
  
"And…?" Michael found his anger rising. It was a legitimate question, one he would have asked himself. But he felt Donna quivering in his arms and felt the need to protect her. She was a direct link to Sylva. He felt a chill go down his back. Why did Sylva Sidney have such an emotional stronghold on him?  
  
"No signs of forced entry. Are you in the habit of leaving your door unlocked Miss Myers?"  
  
"It was locked. I'm sure it was. I always check the doors and windows before taking a shower."  
  
"They must have had a key then."  
  
"No. Only Sylva and I have keys. We never gave out copies."  
  
"Sylva?" Detective Bickford was suddenly interested, "Sylva Sidney, the chick who OD'd this morning?"  
  
"Sylva didn't OD. She never used drugs."  
  
"Sorry. Just going by what the coroner found."  
  
"If that's all the questions for now…" Michael turned Donna away from Bickford, "Donna could use some rest."  
  
"Yea. I guess there's nothing else. For now. But stay in touch. If you think of anything give me a call. I'm at the forty second Precinct. And," he looked pointedly at Michael, "this is police business, don't get in the way. Understood?"  
  
"Perfectly."  
  
The detective nodded and made his way back through the mess. As the last officer closed the door behind him they were left alone, standing in the center of the trashed room.  
  
Donna looked at the mess, her eyes filling with tears again. This was more then she could handle. First Sylva, now this. "Michael, what's going on?"  
  
"Somebody wants something."  
  
"What? There's nothing of value here. I mean other than some personal keepsakes."  
  
"Someone was desperate. Desperate enough to kill Sylva and clean up all the lose ends."  
  
"They thought she hid something here?"  
  
Michael nodded. "Did she have a computer?"  
  
"Half the time she was home she was huddled over that damn thing. The last couple of months she acted like she was possessed."  
  
"Where is it?"  
  
"In her room." Donna led him to Sylva's room. The door had been kicked in, leaving a giant hole in the center. Inside the room was in the same shambles as the rest of the house. On a desk beneath a window affording a spectacular view of the bay, her computer was spread across the desk, in a million pieces.  
  
He ran his comlink across the broken pieces, "Kitt, any chance that the hard drive is salvageable?"  
  
Donna watched him, then nearly jumped when she heard Kitt's reply. "I'm sorry Michael, it's been trashed."  
  
"Thanks, Pal, I was just hoping."  
  
Michael turned around to find Donna staring at him, confusion on her face.  
  
"It's a radio built into the watch," Michael explained. "I can keep in contact with my partner."  
  
"Your partner?"  
  
"You'll meet him soon enough. Now, get dressed and put a few things together, you can't stay here."  
  
"But…"  
  
"Look, they may be satisfied now, but when they get to thinking they may realize there is still something up here." Michael touched her temple. "Who knows what Sylva said to you in passing. It may not have meant anything to you then, but they can't take the chance that you won't put two and two together."  
  
"Where will I go? I have no one."  
  
"You have me." He said with a gentle grin. "How about a nice drive down the coast?"  
  
"You know what, Michael?" Donna slipped her arms around his chest, listening to his heart beat, "if things were different you could be a very dangerous man."  
  
Michael hugged her tightly, "And you," he leaned down and kissed her lightly on the top of her head, "could be a very dangerous woman."  
  
They stood there for a long moment, embracing in the mists of all the chaos, thrown together by the tragedy of death.  
  
"Come on," Michael urged, "get your stuff together. I want to be out of here before we get more visitors."  
  
She nodded and silently walked out of the room, overcome by a myriad of emotions.  
  
  
  
While Donna was getting dressed and collecting what she could Michael found the phone hidden beneath a pile of sofa cushions and put a call through to a seldom used line at the Foundation. When he heard Bonnie's voice he was filled with a feeling of relief and guilt. Was it right that he involve her?  
  
  
  
The minute the phone ran on Bonnie's desk she knew who it was. Only a handful of people knew her personal number, and even fewer used it. Her life revolved around Kitt and the Foundation. Michael and Devon were her family. Over the years she had immersed herself so deeply in work that she had allowed her old friends to slip away. But she didn't regret it. Her work was too important, and everything she needed was here. Including Michael Knight.  
  
"Hi Bon," She heard Michael's voice and her heart skipped a beat. She would never allow herself to admit that she was hopelessly in love with him. Instead she played the hard to get game, knowing he felt the same way.  
  
"Michael. I can't say this is a surprise."  
  
"Is Devon around?"  
  
"No. Not at the moment. He took a walk, he said he had to clear his head. I don't know what you said to him but he's damn mad."  
  
"I know. But Bonnie, I need your help." She could hear the hesitation in his voice.  
  
"Does this have to do with the case you're working on? The one that Devon has forbidden you to follow?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
"Michael… no… You can't ask me to go against Devon. He's madder than I've ever seen him."  
  
"I know I'm asking a lot. But I really need your help."  
  
"But…"  
  
"Donna Myers was dragged out of her shower this morning and her house was ransacked. They didn't hurt her, this time...But…"  
  
"Who is Donna Myers?"  
  
"Sylva Sidney's roommate."  
  
A weary smile crossed her face, "The infamous Sylva Sidney. What is it about this woman that has you so obsessed?"  
  
"I don't know. I wish I did. I just know that I have to see this through. If I don't…"  
  
"I'm not saying yes, but what do you want me to do?"  
  
"Meet me in Pacifica. That's where I'm taking Donna. I want you to stay with her, protect her while I'm on the road. She's swimming in dangerous waters, Bon. She has no idea how dangerous."  
  
Bonnie sighed deeply, "Alright. No promises, but I'll talk to Devon, see if I can persuade him to lighten up. But Michael, I won't go behind his back. I can't."  
  
"I know. Just do what you can."  
  
  
  
Michael threw the bag of miscellaneous necessities Donna salvaged from the debris in the back seat and held the door open for her.  
  
Michael never tired of the reaction of people as they first met Kitt. Donna was no exception. She stared in amazement at the array of buttons lining the frame of the T-top above, at the switches and dials covering every inch of the dash and console. She watched the LED dials as they moved up and down, constantly monitoring the surroundings. She brushed the number two monitor screen with her hand as if it would disintegrate like a dream before her eyes.  
  
He slipped into the driver's seat, allowing Kitt to close both doors.  
  
"What kind of car is this?" Donna asked in awe.  
  
"A prototype," Michael grinned, "I like bells and whistles." He felt a slight electrical surge through the comlink. Kitt was not happy with his reference to bells and whistles. Kitt was far more than that.  
  
"Does everything work?"  
  
Michael shrugged, "I think so. There are some things here that even I don't know about. My mechanic slash computer expert likes to keep me humble."  
  
Donna looked at him, her hands relaxing in her lap, the worry lines around her eyes lessening. "Not an easy task, I bet."  
  
He grinned, hitting the start button. Donna gasped at the whine of the turbine engine as he easily pulled away from the curb.  
  
"Do we have a destination?" Kitt asked.  
  
Donna jumped, looking from the console to the back seat.  
  
"It's the car," Michael grinned.  
  
"The car talks?"  
  
Michael nodded, enjoying the moment.  
  
"Michael, perhaps you should allow me to make the introductions," Kitt offered officiously."  
  
"Go right ahead, Pal."  
  
"Miss Myers, I am The Knight Industries Two Thousand, my friends call me Kitt. I am a highly developed A.I.. I am housed in this Trans Am because it enables me to protect Michael. And believe me, he needs a lot of protection."  
  
"A talking car? And all these…" She indicated the buttons and switches, "gadgets, you control them?"  
  
"I have complete control over the vehicle and the electronic equipment." Kitt said with a hint of pride in his voice. "Michael has a tendency to take risks when he's on assignment, I am here to…"  
  
"Kitt, that's enough." Michael warned sternly, "I don't take unnecessary chances."  
  
"If you say so Michael, but may I remind you about…"  
  
"No, you don't have to remind me about anything. Now please, just plot us a course to Pacifica and find a nice hotel around there."  
  
"Very well Michael. Course plotted in. Would you prefer one or two rooms?"  
  
Donna looked at Michael, waiting for an answer herself.  
  
"One, Pal. And," he turned toward Donna, "you don't have to worry, I won't be there much. I have a friend coming to stay with you."  
  
"I wasn't worried." She smiled, "not about you anyway."  
  
Michael looked over at her. With her short blonde haired tosseled from a quick towel drying, and no makeup she looked incredibly young and vulnerable. But there was fire in her eyes. Michael made a mental note to be careful around her. He could lose his heart very quickly.  
  
  
  
He caught the freeway onramp to 101 and headed South. The traffic was light at this time of day and he kept at a steady sixty seven miles an hour. "Any idea what Sylva was working on this time?" He asked, breaking the silence.  
  
"No, she didn't discuss her projects. She would just hand me the paper once the story was published."  
  
"She never said anything? Even in passing? Something that didn't make any sense at the time?"  
  
"No."  
  
"Did you know that she filed a permit to carry a concealed weapon?"  
  
Donna sat straighter in her seat, "No, that's impossible. Sylva hated guns. I mean, really hated guns. Her brother was killed by a stray bullet when she was thirteen. She would never carry a gun."  
  
"Not unless she was desperate."  
  
Silence fell between them. Michael merged across the freeway and took the onramp to Highway One. Donna watched the scenery as they headed for the coast. As the freeway made its way up through a long sloping curve, at it's apex it came out on a spectacular view of the Pacific Ocean below. The road hugged the cliffs as they made their way down to sea level. Even Kitt seemed to appreciate the view.  
  
"How did you know about Pacifica?" Donna asked.  
  
"There are some places you don't forget. This is one of them. Kitt, you got us a hotel?"  
  
"You are already registered. Just stop at the counter for your room key."  
  
"Thanks, Pal."  
  
"As easy as that?" Donna laughed. "They're always booked around here."  
  
"I've learned never to underestimate Kitt."  
  
"Thank you, Michael. ETA seven minutes."  
  
  
  
  
  
Bonnie hesitantly approached Devon's office. She had seldom seen him this angry, and never at Michael. They had had arguments in the past, both personal and work related, but never to this magnitude. Devon was furious.  
  
She knocked at the door and only entered after she heard him acknowledge her.  
  
"If you are here on Michael's behalf, save your breath. He has stepped over the line this time."  
  
"Then it must be important to him."  
  
"He has an assignment. A critical one at that. And yet he decided to usurp my authority. I will not stand for it! If he wishes to continue on this rampage of his it will not be under the auspices of FLAG."  
  
"Why not?" Bonnie felt her face flush with anger. "Wasn't the Foundation created to help someone like Donna Myers? I know how important it is to bring down Distal. But isn't Donna Myers just as important? Doesn't she deserve our help?"  
  
"The Foundation is bound by rules. As in any organization there must be rank and file. I must report to the Board Members, account for all our expenditures. Michael must report to me. The last thing I need now, with all the scrutiny by the board, is to have Michael gallivanting out there like a mad man."  
  
"Devon, you have always said that you trusted his instincts. Why not now?"  
  
Devon stared at her.  
  
"Donna Myers was Sylva Sidney's roommate. Her house was broken into this morning. She was dragged out of her shower while her house was ransacked. How can Michael turn his back on her?"  
  
"Is she all right?" He asked, concern shoving his anger aside for the moment.  
  
"Yes. She wasn't physically hurt, but mentally…She lost her roommate and any semblance of normalcy, all in one day."  
  
"What is Michael purposing to do?"  
  
"They are on their way to Pacifica, a small town thirty minutes South of San Francisco. He feels she'll be safer away from the city. He wants me to fly out and stay with her while he's on the road."  
  
"And…?"  
  
"I will not go without your blessing, Devon."  
  
Devon sat back in his seat. Why was it never easy when it came to Michael Knight?  
  
"All right." He sighed, "but, Michael will still receive a stern reprimand for this incident. He has gone way beyond the bounds."  
  
"Thank you, Devon."  
  
Devon nodded. "Now get out of here, you have a plane to catch. And please, tell Michael he still has the Distal case to work on as well."  
  
"I will."  
  
  
  
Donna sat on the edge of the bed shaking. The reality of what had happened in the past few hours suddenly set in as they walked through the door into her new home, for how long she had no idea. Kitt had found a small condominium for rent, nestled off the main road amid a forest of California Junipers, overlooking the ocean. The view off the balcony was breathtaking, but it only furthered her anguish. Sylva loved the ocean, that was why they rented the house they had, far too expensive for them, but it kept her in touch with what she loved the most, the water.  
  
Michael sat down beside her and drew her into his arms. The compassion he felt for her was mixed with his own feelings of loss and confusion. He was still haunted by the sight of Sylva Sidney lying in the garbage strewn alley, alone. How frightened was she when she died? What had she learned that made her such a danger? He had to find out. He felt driven unlike never before in his life. It was as if, the moment he laid eyes on her, she somehow burrowed her soul into his. He could never rest until he found her killers and exposed her story.  
  
"You're safe here," He said gently.  
  
She clung to him, feeling his heart beat as she rested her head against his chest. She did feel safe with him, but her heart was breaking. She hadn't even had time to call Sylva's parents.  
  
He held her tightly as she continued to cry. He knew the three steps of grieving, he had experienced them all too often. First there was the tears, then the anger and frustration, then the guilt. He remembered how he had grieved over his own death, saying goodbye to Michael Long and accepting the newborn Michael Knight.  
  
He embraced her for an hour until she was exhausted and then gently lifted her onto the pillow, covering her with the bedspread. Rest was what she needed now. He walked out onto the balcony and leaned over the railing watching the surf pound the rocks below. Bonnie had called en route. Devon had relented and she was on her way. Once she was here he could head back to San Francisco and start looking around.  
  
  
  
Michael led Bonnie out onto the balcony. "How's Devon?" he asked.  
  
Michael had grown to love and respect the older man, and to have him this mad didn't settle well. But it couldn't be helped. Sometimes, no matter what the consequences, you had to follow your heart.  
  
"As mad as a wet hen. He may have calmed down a bit, but when this case and the Distal case are over you're in for one hell of a tongue lashing. I have never seen him so mad."  
  
"If he could see what we see…" he nodded at Donna, cuddled beneath the bedspread, her face, even in sleep, mirroring her grief.  
  
Bonnie patted him on the chest. "You're doing the right thing. While he hasn't given his full blessing, he's willing to work with you. Now, what have you got so far?"  
  
He looked down at the crashing waves, exasperated. "Nothing. If Sylva kept any notes or files at home they were taken, or destroyed."  
  
"Got any plans?"  
  
"Just winging it for now. Look, talk to Donna, see if she remembers anything. Any strange phone calls, any notes left around the house."  
  
"If she was as good a reporter as you say she was then she would have had back up for her material. She wouldn't take the chance and store it all in one place."  
  
"Can you plug into the main computers at the Foundation without Kitt?"  
  
Bonnie nodded, becoming intrigued.  
  
"Then do it. See if Sylva's received any parking citations, reporters are famous for it, half the paper's budget goes for fines, see if you can trace her moves over the past two months. And also check her phone records. Find if there's a pattern. She's been working on this for awhile. There must be a trail somewhere."  
  
"I'll get on it right away."  
  
"And one more thing. Find out if she had a deadline for this story."  
  
"You got it."  
  
He kissed her lightly on the check, "Have I told you lately that you're the best?"  
  
"Yes." She grinned, "but a girl can never hear it enough times." She nodded toward the room, "Are you going to wake Donna before you go?"  
  
"No. Let her sleep while she can. She's in for a rough ride."  
  
Bonnie watched Michael quietly close the door behind him. Something told her they would all end up on that rough ride.  
  
  
  
  
  
Michael stood in the doorway of a cramped office that was once Sylva Sidney's. Sitting at the end of a long hallway on the third floor it was still one of the old buildings left just off the financial district in the Mission Street area. Whoever had ransacked her house had already paid a visit here. The room was strewn with notes and letters all covered in a gallon of black paint. The room still reeked of the oil based paint that also smeared the walls. A twelve inch screwdriver protruded from her computer tower, destroying the hard drive. The destruction was complete, and professional. As was the ransacking of her house. Whoever…  
  
"What are you doing here?"  
  
Michael whirled around, shocked to see someone standing behind him. He was always aware of his surroundings, never let his focus slip, until now. He had been so lost in thought that he had not heard the tall balding man approach.  
  
"Michael Knight," Michael offered his hand.  
  
"That still doesn't answer my question." In his late sixties, the man appeared to be just hanging onto his emotions. He stared at Michael, waiting.  
  
"I'm a friend of Donna Myers."  
  
The old man studied Michael, his eyes mirroring his distrust. "Where is she?"  
  
"She's safe."  
  
"I've known Donna and Sylva for a long time, I've never seen you in the picture before."  
  
Michael nodded, handing over a business card. "I work for The Foundation For Law and Government."  
  
"I've heard rumors about you guys." The old man studied the card, not sure what to believe, who to trust. "Never knew if you really existed."  
  
"We do. And we've promised to help Donna. Until we find who killed Sylva, Donna will be…"  
  
"Wait a minute, Michael Knight, I've heard that name." Without another word he spun on his heels and hurried down the hallway to another office. Michael followed, intrigued, yet cautious. People acted differently in the shadow of death. Everyone was just a little nervous and frightened.  
  
Michael followed him into an office twice the size of Sylva's. The placard on his desk read Amos Hastings, Senior Editor. Michael watched him search through a stack of notes on his desk until he found the one he wanted.  
  
"Michael Knight." He looked up suspicion in his eyes, "You were the one who found Sylva last night."  
  
Michael nodded. "I was following a lead on another case and found her."  
  
"And now you and your Foundation are interested in her? Why? I don't mean to be blunt, but freelance reporters get killed. All too often. They are the vanguard for the truth. They put their lives on the line everyday. What makes Sylva Sidney so important to you?"  
  
Michael wished he could give him an honest answer, he wished he knew the answer himself. But there was no reasoning behind the consuming need to find her killers except, that she had touched him. Even in death she had reached out and begged him for help. "No one," he said softly, "should have to die alone like that."  
  
The simple words and the emotion behind them made Amos Hastings take a step back, churning up his own emotions. Silence fell between them. Michael suddenly felt very uncomfortable. The stench of the oil based paint coming from Sylva's office made him nauseous. This was where she worked. Whoever killed her did so because of her work here. He felt the need to flee, to get fresh air, but he stood his ground. The answers were here, somehow, somewhere all the answers were here.  
  
"She didn't OD." Hastings whispered. "She never used."  
  
"I know. What was she working on?"  
  
Hastings walked around his desk, his legs unsteady, and dropped into his chair. "God help me, I didn't know."  
  
"You gave her three thousand dollars."  
  
Hastings sat back in his chair, emotionally exhausted, "Sylva was the best reporter I have even known. I've been in the business a lot of years, and Sylva was the best. She broke more stories in the four years she's been here then most of our reporters have in a dozen. When she gleamed onto something that was it. She was like a tenacious bulldog, she would never let go. She said she was working on something big, that she needed money for her contacts. I didn't ask why." He ran his hands through his sparse hair. He was a man fighting the wages of guilt. "Damn it, I didn't ask. I didn't want to know. She was going to bring me another big story. The only thing that keeps a small paper on its feet in a town like this is stories like Sylva's." He looked up at Michael, his face ashen white, "Dear God, I'm as much responsible for her death as those bastards who killed her."  
  
"No you're not." Michael crossed the room, pulling a chair up next to the desk and straddling it backwards. "But you can help me find the ones who are."  
  
"Everything was destroyed."  
  
"In there. Maybe. But what about the rest of the place? Did she use fax machines, other computers? When she wasn't at her desk who took her calls? Do you have a log of phone messages? Did she keep an expense account? She used a company car, did she provide you with monthly receipts for gas, parking?"  
  
Amos nodded. Suddenly he felt less a victim of circumstance. There was something he could do. From the moment he heard of Sylva's death he felt the weight of guilt nearly suffocate him. He had allowed her to pursue what he knew was dangerous. But he had convinced himself everyday that this story was like all the others. Sylva could take care of herself. She would break the story, what ever it was, wide open. And he would once again shine in her limelight. "She used my computer a few times, I have the only internet access." His voice sounded animated for the first time. "And I will check the fax log. She used an answering machine to tape her calls, but it's missing."  
  
"Not surprising. All right," Michael said as he slowly stood up, "You can reach me through that number," he nodded toward the business card Amos still clutched in his hand, "if you think of anything else."  
  
"Mr. Knight… You will find who killed Sylva…?"  
  
Michael stared back at him, eyes unflinching, "I promised her I would find her killer. I never break a promise."  
  
  
  
Michael slipped into the driver's seat feeling drained. Seeing the carnage in Sylva's office brought both fear and anger. Could he keep his promise? And if he couldn't, would she haunt him the rest of his life?  
  
"Michael?" Kit ventured after Michael's pulse and heart rate slowed down to near normal.  
  
"Yea, Buddy?"  
  
"I'm confused."  
  
"About what?"  
  
"I understand, to a degree, your feelings of lose when you lose someone close to you. Even if you have only known them for a short time. But you never met this young woman, she is a complete stranger. Why is she affecting you so much?"  
  
"I don't know, Kitt. Maybe I was meant to find her. Find her killer."  
  
"You believe in destiny?"  
  
"Maybe. I know I won't rest until I find the ones responsible."  
  
"Then we…. Michael, Devon is calling."  
  
Michael dropped his head back against the head rest, not ready for a confrontation with Devon.  
  
"Put him through," he sighed heavily. He had to talk to him sooner or later.  
  
Devon's image appeared on the number one monitor, "Michael…?"  
  
"Sorry Devon, I haven't had time to follow up on Distal. Sometime after dark we will…"  
  
"I'm not calling about Distal." Devon broke in, "we will discuss that matter at another time." Michael couldn't quite read Devon. He knew the older man was still undeniably angry, but there was also compassion in his face. "Bonnie said you wanted a list of traffic or parking citations on Sylva Sidney."  
  
Michael sat up, surprised, "Yea. I'm trying to trace her whereabouts for the last two months."  
  
"Well, you were quite right about her parking habits. In a city like San Francisco, where parking is at such a premium, tickets are one of the cities biggest revenues. Sylva Sidney definitely contributed to their coffers. She received seventeen tickets in the past two months, all paid immediately. I'll provide Kitt with the times and locations."  
  
"Thanks, Devon."  
  
Devon's expression softened, "You look tired Michael, you would do yourself well to get some rest."  
  
"I will, later."  
  
"What is your next move?"  
  
"Check around the waterfront."  
  
"Oh no, Michael," Kitt cringed, "not that God forsaken place again."  
  
"Sylva was there for a reason. I want to know why."  
  
"Michael, watch your step," Devon cautioned, "whoever is behind this has felt no compunction against murder."  
  
"I know. I'll watch my back."  
  
Devon nodded, "Take care, my boy, and keep in touch." The screen blackened leaving Michael baffled. Devon had been dead set against his pursuing Sylva's case. Now…  
  
"I believe," Kitt said, rather amazed, "that Devon, in his own way, has given you his blessings."  
  
"I think you're right."  
  
  
  
  
  
Donna Myers sat before a tray of toast and an assortment of fresh fruit on the balcony overlooking the crashing waves.  
  
"You should try to eat something." Bonnie urged, sitting across from her.  
  
"I'm not hungry." Donna answered dully, staring at the churning waves as they crashed against the rocks below.  
  
She had awakened, perhaps forty minutes ago, surprised to find a strange woman in her room and Michael Knight gone. Bonnie had explained to her that Michael had asked her to stay while he was gone. Donna welcomed the company but couldn't help but wish it were Michael sitting across from her. At any other time, under any other circumstance she could see herself falling for Michael Knight. He was tall, handsome and kind beyond words, but, he was also haunted by the ghost of her best friend. Even in death Sylva reached out and touched people. Donna closed her eyes, listened to the sound of the waves crashing below, allowed herself to wonder back through her memories. It was a difficult passage. She had loved Sylva, considered her more of a kindred spirit than just a friend, but she was also very jealous. Everyone loved Sylva. The reason was never quite clear to Donna. She knew it went far beyond Sylva's beauty. Standing near five eleven she often towered over everyone around her, even the men. Her long, dark hair and brown, liquid eyes drew people closer. Donna remembered, even in the smallest of conversations how Sylva would make eye contact, make you feel as if every word you said was the most important thing to her at the moment. You could not help but trust her. She felt a pang of guilt over her jealousy. It was unwarranted, but there all the same.  
  
"Donna…?" Bonnie's voice filtered through her thoughts. "Donna, I'm sorry, we need to talk."  
  
Donna opened her eyes, surprised almost, to see where she was. How could it have been less then twenty four hours ago that her world had tumbled into this hell?  
  
"Donna," Bonnie's voice was kind, but strong, "you may not know it, but you could hold the answer to Sylva's killer."  
  
Donna whipped her head up, stunned, and a little angry. "You think I had something to do with…"  
  
"That's not what I said. I said you could hold the answer, and not even know it. Think back over the past two months, does anything jump out at you, anything. Something Sylva said that made no sense at the moment. A phone call, a letter, anything."  
  
A memory flashed in Donna's mind. Something she had dismissed as being unimportant. "A couple of weeks ago someone called Sylva at twelve thirty in the morning. I remember being furious because we had a deal, no phone calls after eleven o'clock. I had a run the next morning and had to be up at four."  
  
"Can you remember what she said?"  
  
"You mean to the person on the other end? I didn't listen to her private conversations."  
  
Bonnie smiled knowingly. "You may not have listened deliberately, but the phone woke you up, it would be human nature to want to know who the jerk was that called so late."  
  
"No."  
  
"Think about it Donna, it's important. Remember back, you were probably fast asleep…"  
  
Donna closed her eyes again, remembering back. "I was really mad, it had taken me forever to fall asleep and… I went into her room to yell and…"  
  
"And what?" Bonnie sat forward, knowing that Donna was on the verge of remembering.  
  
"She said something like… 'They'll never bury it deep enough, I've got the paper trail that leads straight to their door.' Then she saw me and hung up."  
  
"Did you get a name?"  
  
"No. That's it."  
  
"It's a start." Bonnie handed her dish of fruit, "A great start in fact. That's the kind of thing we're looking for. Now, have something to eat. It'll make you feel better, I promise. "  
  
  
  
  
  
Michael parked at the top of Nob Hill watching the sun disappear behind a mountain of clouds just off shore, amazed at how quickly it moved in blanketing the city in thick fog.  
  
That was the summertime pattern for San Francisco. Most mornings the fog burned off by ten, eleven o'clock, only to return in the late afternoon, sometimes so thick you could not see two feet in front of you.  
  
He looked at his watch. It was just past five. He would wait here a couple more hours until the bars along the waterfront livened up.  
  
"Michael, Bonnie is calling. Since she is using a land line she is routing her call through the Foundation so no one can trace the call."  
  
"Smart girl," Michael grinned, "always one step ahead. Patch her through."  
  
"Michael?" Bonnie's voice filled the cabin. Michael missed seeing her on the monitor.  
  
"Hey, Bon."  
  
"I may have something for you."  
  
"Great, I'll take anything I can get."  
  
"Donna remembered a phone call Sylva had a couple weeks ago. She remembered her saying… 'They'll never bury it deep enough, I've got the paper trail that leads straight to their door.'"  
  
"Any idea who she was talking to?"  
  
"No. But I hacked into the phone company's logs. The call was made from a pay phone on the corner of Third and Battery."  
  
"Michael," Kitt added, "that location is one block from the alley where you found Miss Sidney."  
  
"Tell me they used a credit card?" Michael asked, hopefully.  
  
"No such luck. But Michael, that was not the first call Sylva got from that phone booth. Over the past six weeks she received two others at home and four at her office. Here's the clincher, the last call she received was yesterday evening at seven-thirty."  
  
Michael stared at the swirling fog as it covered them in a blanket of gray. Was it a warning, or a set up?  
  
"What's your next move?" Bonnie asked, concern in her voice. If Michael got too close would he meet the same fate as Sylva?  
  
"Swing by the waterfront. There's got to be someone around there who remembers her."  
  
"Be careful, Michael."  
  
"Hey, that's my middle name." Michael grinned.  
  
"No Michael, Trouble is."  
  
"Love you too, Bon. I'll be in touch."  
  
He leaned his head back against the headrest. He was dead tired. He'd only gotten a few restless hours sleep that morning and his body was beginning to feel the effects. It was still a couple hours before nightfall. He moved the seat back and nestled into a comfortable position. "Kitt, wake me when it gets dark."  
  
"Of course, Michael. Pleasant dreams."  
  
"Thanks, Pal." Michael closed his eyes and slipped into a light troubled sleep.  
  
  
  
  
  
As Michael slowly drove through the back alleyways around the waterfront a shiver went down his spine. What was so important to Sylva Sidney to bring her down to this hell hole? Was the story important enough to risk her life? She obviously knew she was in danger or she would not have requested a permit to carry a concealed weapon. And she was too smart to have been working this alone. Her contact was here, somewhere. The question was, was he friend or foe.  
  
He pulled behind Chang's Restaurant and parked. It was hard to believe it was less then twenty four hours ago that he had found Sylva's body.  
  
"Do you have a plan Michael?" Kitt asked.  
  
Michael shrugged, "Stir the pot and see what rises."  
  
"If my memory serves me, that approach usually ends in disaster."  
  
"You got a better idea?"  
  
There was silence.  
  
"Didn't think so. Kitt, print me a picture of Sylva, wallet size. Make it look likes it's been in my wallet for awhile."  
  
"Coming right up."  
  
In a matter of minutes a three by four inch picture appeared from a slot beneath the dashboard. Michael marveled at Kitt's ingenuity. Not only was the picture faded and the paper worn, Sylva's hair was shorter and her face looked younger.  
  
"I took the liberty," Kitt explained, with a hint of pride, "of changing her appearance just a bit."  
  
"You're a genius Kitt."  
  
"No," Kitt replied, "I'm the Knight Industries Two Thousand."  
  
"Smart alex car."  
  
Michael folded and refolded the picture a few times adding lines and crinkles to the paper and slipped it into his jacket pocket. "Wish me luck Pal."  
  
"Just be careful, Michael."  
  
  
  
Chang's Restaurant could not be described any other way than to say it was a dive. Michael walked around to the front, hugging his jacket to ward off the cold wind and fog. A half lit neon sign spelled out Chang's in the dirty window. A Eurasian woman leaned in the door way, her blouse too low and her skirt too high. Michael guessed she was no older then twenty five, but her life style aged her, leaving her looking hard and callous.  
  
"Hey," she purred as he tried to pass by her, "What's a big stud like you doing around here?"  
  
"Looking for a girl." Michael said, watching the woman come to life. She stood up straight, shoving her chest forward, proudly displaying her ample cleavage.  
  
"You've come to the right spot." She cooed, "I can show you a night that'll you'll never forget."  
  
"I'm sure you could," Michael grinned, "but," he pulled out the photo of Sylva, "I'm looking for this woman. Have you seen her?"  
  
The minute the woman saw the picture her demeanor changed. Her smiled disappeared, replaced by unmasked fear. "No, never seen her before."  
  
Michael took a step closer, trapping her between himself and the wall. "Why?" he asked, "do I get the feeling that you're lying?"  
  
"Look Mister, you better get out of here, fast, and stop flashing that picture around." She squeezed past him and started to run but Michael caught her wrist and yanked her back.  
  
"Why?" he demanded. He could feel her trembling with fear. But the fear he saw in her eyes was not from him. She was terrified of something else. Of something she knew.  
  
"She's trouble. Big trouble."  
  
"Have you ever seen her around here?"  
  
She shook her head and Michael squeezed her wrist a little tighter. He would never hurt her, but she didn't know that. "Have you ever seen her around here?" He asked again.  
  
"A few times. Please, I don't want any part of this."  
  
"Just tell me what I want to know and you can go."  
  
"I saw her, two, maybe three times in the past couple of weeks. She stood out like a sore thumb around her. Too much lady for a place like this."  
  
"Was she alone?"  
  
"When she went in. She always came out with a guy on her arm. She must have cost a pretty penny."  
  
The implication angered Michael. Sylva was no hooker. Of that he was certain. "Was it the same guy?"  
  
The woman nodded. "Except for last night."  
  
Michael's blood ran cold. She was set up.  
  
"Are either one of them here tonight?"  
  
"The guy she was with most times, he's in there. He's here every night. Look Mister," she tried to pull her wrist free, "you're costing me money. I gotta work to pay the bills like everyone else."  
  
Michael dug into his pocket and brought out a hundred dollar bill and tore it in half stuffing half of it in her hand. "You show me the guy and you get the other half."  
  
Michael saw the indecision in her eyes, but a hundred bucks was too much to pass up, even on a good night, which this wasn't. "It's your funeral." She opened the door and the odor from inside nearly knocked Michael back.  
  
The building was as old and decrepit looking on the inside as it was on the outside. The smell of stale beer and whiskey mingled with the smells of rotting fish and putrid oil. Two rows of small round tables with two chairs each hugged the left wall with a bar and barstools lining the other wall, leaving just enough room to walk between them. Statues of dragons and serpents hung from the walls. Meager light from two bare light bulbs behind the bar barely lit the tables, leaving the two back tables in dark shadow.  
  
"The last table," the woman whispered. Michael nodded and nonchalantly stuffed the other half of the hundred in her palm and the woman disappeared.  
  
As Michael slipped onto a barstool he felt every eye on him. If not for the juke box playing in the corner the room would have been silent. He quickly counted twenty two men, different ages, different colors, different stages of inebriation. What the hell was Sylva doing here?  
  
A door leading to the kitchen opened and a short Chinese man, stooped over by age approached him from behind the bar. "You want drink?" he asked, his accent so thick Michael could barely understand him.  
  
"A beer."  
  
The old man slid a dirty glass, still smudged with fingerprints from its prior user, down the bar. Michael caught it before it slid off. It was followed by a bottle of beer, its top pried off just enough for Michael to flip it off the rest of the way with his thumb.  
  
"You want food?" The old man asked.  
  
Michael shook his head. Before walking in he was starved. He hadn't eaten since breakfast, but now his appetite was ruined, possibly for the rest of his life. He grabbed his beer, leaving the dirty glass behind, and slowly walked toward the back of the room, all eyes on him. The man the Eurasian woman had pointed out sat at the last table in the darkness, watching everything. Michael noticed he sat with his back against the wall, forestalling any surprises. He pulled the empty chair away from the table with his foot and pushed it up against the wall sitting down before asking, "Mind if I have a seat?"  
  
"It's a free country." The man looked to be in his late thirties. He wore his thick black hair shaggy over his forehead and long enough to cover his collar. A heavy three-day stubble covered his cheeks and chin. He wore a heavy black turtleneck sweater and pea coat.  
  
"A friend said you might know a friend of mine." Michael said, still feeling the eyes of everyone on him.  
  
"Could be. I know a lot of people. Then again, your friend could be wrong."  
  
Michael slipped the photo out of his pocket and laid it on the table. The reaction was immediate, but barely noticeable in the meager light. "I'm afraid your friend was wrong." The man said, pushing the picture back toward Michael, "never saw the lady before. Not exactly someone you'd see in a dive like this."  
  
"Funny," Michael smiled coldly, "my friend's friend said that you were seen leaving this place arm and arm, quite a few times."  
  
The man sat forward, leaning over the table, "You're in way over your head mister," he hissed, "I'd turn around right now and forget this place ever existed."  
  
Michael ignored the treat. "Sylva got a phone call last night, about seven thirty."  
  
The man stiffened, and sat back in his chair. "From who?"  
  
Michael shrugged. "You, maybe. It was the same phone booth you used to call her before." Michael threw out the bait, and waited.  
  
A small smile played at the corners of the man's mouth. "You're good." He said, "But," the smile disappeared, "you're not that good. Neither was Sylva. I told her to back off, but she wouldn't listen."  
  
"Back off of what? What was she working on?"  
  
"You a reporter too?"  
  
Michael shook his head, "Just someone who wants to set things straight for her. No one deserves to die like that, alone in a back alley."  
  
The man sat back and sipped at his beer, deciding whether to trust Michael or not. Michael sat back too, allowing the man time to think. He might lose him now if he pushed too hard.  
  
"Look, we can't talk here." The man stood up, leaving behind a slip of paper. "Meet me there," he nodded at the paper, "in twenty minutes. Come alone or I won't talk."  
  
Michael nodded.  
  
"Wait five minutes before you leave," he ordered, "and make sure you don't pick up a tail."  
  
"I'll be there." Michael said, pocketing the note.  
  
Michael watched the man walk out the door, every eye in the room watching as the door closed behind him, then all eyes swung back on him again. He sat back and finished his beer, hoping he didn't look as nervous as he felt.  
  
  
  
He waited the five minutes then slipped around the back of the restaurant and let out a sigh of relief when he was finally inside the safety of Kitt's cabin.  
  
"Michael, you were playing a very dangerous game in there." Kitt chastised him.  
  
"I know. But it got results. Here, see if you can get an ID on our friend from this." Michael punched a button on the dashboard and a small tray popped out. He placed the slip of paper in the analyzer tray and watched it disappear back into the dash.  
  
"I'm afraid paper is not the best material for lifting prints, Michael."  
  
"Do what you can, Pal. And plot us a course to that address."  
  
"Right away, Michael."  
  
Michael sat back in his seat, trying to relax. If that was Sylva's contact then he could know everything before the night was over.  
  
"Michael, I have a partial print, enough to make a positive ID."  
  
"Great. Who is he, Kitt?"  
  
The number two monitor popped on and a picture of the man Michael had been sitting opposite a few minutes ago appeared, minus the long hair and stubble.  
  
"His name is Randall Sullivan. He used to work for Gorham Pharmaceuticals before he was fired five months ago for theft."  
  
Michael looked at the photo of Sullivan on the screen. Clean cut, at least twenty pounds heavier, he was almost unrecognizable from the man he had met tonight.  
  
"OK, Kitt, lets get over to that address. And, see what you can find out about Randall Sullivan and Gorham Pharmaceuticals."  
  
"Right away, Michael."  
  
  
  
The address turned out to be eight blocks away on the far end of a deserted wharf, left to rot when Pier 39, a Mecca for tourists, was built a decade before. Part of the structure had fallen into the bay leaving only a narrow foot bridge between the two sections of the pier. Two metal sheds stood on the edge of the wooden deck, corroded with rust from the unrelenting fog.  
  
"Michael, Randall Sullivan is in front of the second shed. Oh no…"  
  
"What Kitt?"  
  
"His vital signs are deteriorating rapidly. He has been injured. Severely."  
  
"Damn it! Is there anyone else around?"  
  
"No one but Randall Sullivan."  
  
Michael climbed out of the car cautiously. "Keep your scanners peeled, Buddy." He said as he ran toward the sheds. "And give me some light." He yelled back.  
  
Kitt hit the high beams flooding the pier with light diffused by the fog. The foot bridge creaked and sagged under Michael's weight but it held. He could see Sullivan crumbled against the shed through the swirling fog. As he got closer he could see blood soaking Sullivan's shirt and pooling around his hips. He gently lifted him away from the shed and laid him on the pier.  
  
"What happened? Who did this?"  
  
Sullivan opened his mouth to speak and a stream of blood ran from the corner of his mouth. He was bleeding internally as well. "…Crestfiled…" He gasped. "… don't let them…."  
  
"Crestfiled?" Michael knelt down close to Sullivan's mouth. "A name, a place? Don't let them do what? Sullivan, come on… Who, what's Crestfield?"  
  
"…Sylva knew…"  
  
"Knew what? Sullivan?"  
  
Michael heard a terrible gurgling sound deep in Sullivan's chest and he gasped one last time. His body went limp and his eyes stared lifelessly at Michael, just like Sylva.  
  
"Damn it!" He cursed, kneeling over Sullivan's body. What the hell was Sylva into? He raised the comlink to his mouth, "Kitt, did you…"  
  
"Michael! Look out!"  
  
Michael heard Kitt's warning and the sound of an outboard motor at the same time. A small dingy sped out from beneath the pier with four men dressed in black jumpsuits and black hoods. Two of them climbed the pier to Michael's left and two to his right. He looked over at Kitt. There was no way for him to get to the safety of the car. And there was no way Kitt could get to him. Kitt couldn't cross the narrow foot bridge and there was not enough space on this side of the pier to turbo boost. He was on his own.  
  
He looked down into the black water beneath the pier. The water was his only escape. The four men slowly converged on him. One held a switchblade, Kitt's high beams sparkling off Sullivan's fresh blood.  
  
Kitt gunned his engine, feeling helpless. He couldn't reach Michael. He rolled closer to the pier. He quickly scanned the area again. Where had they come from? Why hadn't he been able to scan them? He saw Michael looking toward him and felt incredibly guilty. He had let his partner down.  
  
Michael gaged the distance to the water: three long steps. His attackers were an arms length away. He had to move, now. He took a deep breath and feigned running to his left, but dove across the pier. One of them grabbed a rotting two by four and slammed it into his mid section. He landed hard on his knees just inches from the edge of the pier, gasping for air. Someone grabbed his shoulder and whipped him over onto his back. He brought his right foot up catching one of them on the chin with the heel of his shoe. Another one grabbed his hair and slammed his head back against the wooden decking. He reached out and caught a leg and yanked, hearing the thud as a head hit the hard surface. One down, three to go. He tried to bat away the hand that held his hair but his wrist was karate chopped and he felt the pain travel all the way up to his shoulder. He kicked out again and caught someone in the knee. He heard the man collapse to the ground withering in agony, his arterial cruciate ligament blown. Two down, two to go. Another karate chop hit him in the left shoulder and his arm went numb. He tried to dig his heels into the old boards to push himself off, but they were too slippery. Suddenly he felt a searing pain in his left side and he felt something hot and sticky soak his shirt and pants. He'd been cut. How deeply he didn't know. Shock kept the pain from being too intense. The attacker holding his hair lost his grip just enough for Michael to raise his head and punch the one wielding the knife in the face, catching him in the right eye. The attacker fell back against the shed, stunned for the moment, the knife falling from his hands and disappearing between the wooden slats. It gave Michael just enough time to whip himself over onto his knees and scramble over the edge.  
  
Michael hit the water all arms and legs. Kitt saw the splash of water drench the two men still remaining on their feet. He sent out another, more urgent call for help. Hopefully Michael could withstand the frigid water until they arrived.  
  
For a moment Michael was completely confused. Somehow he had held his breath long enough to swim to the surface. Darkness and thick fog swallowed him up, but it also left him blind. He treaded water silently, listening to the mumbled curses from his attackers on the pier and the sound of the water lapping against the pilings. He swam toward the sound, his side on fire now, and grabbed onto a barnacle encrusted piling. The light Kitt had flooded the pier with was gone. His partner knew his only hope for survival was under cover of darkness. He didn't have the strength to climb up the piling, the beating and blood loss left him with barely enough strength to hold on. He carefully probed his side with his fingers. He could feel the hot blood streaming from the wound. It wouldn't be long before he bled to death. He took a deep breath and let himself slip beneath the surface of the water quickly untying his shoe and yanking his sock off. He surfaced and took another gasp of air and submerged again uncinching his belt and tightening it over the wound using the sock as a pressure pad. It was the best he could do. He resurfaced again, the current lapping at his face, filling his mouth with salty water. He wrapped his arms and legs around the slippery piling barely keeping his head above water.  
  
He heard the angry voices of his attackers above. They pointed flashlights between the slats searching for him. It wouldn't be long before they were in the water with him. They couldn't take the chance that he would survive. But as the cold water drained his body of precious warmth and his life's blood turned the black water even blacker, he knew they had already won. He felt saddened that he would never know why he had been chosen to find Sylva's body that night, and felt an overwhelming sense of loss that he had failed her.  
  
The sounds of emergency vehicles in the distance grew louder. He began to shiver so violently that he could no longer hold onto the pilings. Somewhere beyond the blackness of the water he heard the mournful call of the foghorn again.  
  
As the emergency teams reached the pier Kitt tapped into their radios, guiding them to Michael's position. The attackers scurried, dragging their injured friends with them as high intensity lights lit the pier like daylight.  
  
Michael heard excited voices above him as the cold finely wrapped itself around him like a cocoon and he no longer felt cold, only the relief of drifting away into painless warm unconsciousness.  
  
  
  
Michael gingerly stepped out of the cab and into the safety of Kitt's cabin. He had spent a long night in the hospital's emergency room. After awakening in the ambulance half way to the hospital he had been fighting with EMT's, doctors and nurses, trying to convince them all that the wound was superficial and he was more than able to take care of himself. All he needed was rest, which he could get just as easily at home. After his body temperature returned to normal and there were no signs of infection he was reluctantly given a prescription for more pain medication and antibiotics and allowed to leave, only after he finished a detailed police report. Somehow he convinced the investigating officer that he had simply gotten lost and heard the stranger's pleas for help. He was then attacked by four men who scattered when they heard the sirens. After signing off on the AMA paperwork: leaving Against Medical Advice, he promised to stay in town in case of complications and gave them Sylva and Donna's address as his residence. He had too many things to do to be lying in a hospital bed attached to their monitors and IV's. He was a firm believer that hospitals made the sick feel sicker. But the final act of humiliation was being forced to take a cab.  
  
  
  
"Michael, are you sure you should be out of the hospital so soon?" Kitt asked, as Michael carefully settled himself into as comfortable a position as he could find. He had deliberately avoided taking the pain medication until he was safely in Kitt and now he downed two pills with a bottle of water.  
  
"Yea Kitt, I'm just sore, really sore."  
  
"I'm sure you are with twenty six stitches. You were very lucky Michael, the blade didn't hit any vital organs but you lost a considerable amount of blood not to mention the hypothermia."  
  
"Yea, yea Kitt, I know. I've heard it all, already. Just find me a hotel somewhere where I can rest for the night."  
  
"You will require more than just one nights rest, Michael. You were seriously injured, you need…"  
  
"Can it Kitt. I'm fine, Ok?"  
  
"Very well, Michael, if you say so."  
  
Michael nodded, satisfied that he won the argument. "By the way, did you get a chance to snap any pictures of my attackers?"  
  
"I video recorded the entire episode. I have not, however, had time to analyze the footage. I had problems of my own. While the rescue workers were pulling you out of the water and the EMT unit was busy keeping you alive, the police were all over me. I decided, rather than create a spectacle, to allow myself to be loaded onto a police transport truck and hauled off to the impound yard. A humiliating experience."  
  
"Thanks Pal, I appreciate your sacrifice." Michael grinned, his voice slurring as the medication took effect.  
  
"It's quite alright, Michael. As long as you're safe." Kitt monitored Michael's vital signs and watched as his partner drifted into a deep drug induced sleep. He darkened the windows just enough to pass California law, but not allow anyone to see inside, and caught Interstate 80 to 280 to Highway One and Pacifica.  
  
  
  
Bonnie paced the small hotel room, beside herself with worry. Kitt had called and related the incident. Michael was out of immediate danger, but, he was still seriously injured and required medical attention, of which, as usual, he refused. He required, above all, bed rest for at least forty eight hours. Given the circumstances of the case, and Michael's stubbornness, that was going to be near impossible to impose. Under ideal circumstances, Michael was a terrible patient. But this time he seemed obsessed. Somehow Sylva Sidney had burrowed her soul into his sub consciousness.  
  
Donna too, was upset. Despite all her inner warnings, she found herself falling for Michael. She knew, at an intellectual level, that he was in her life because of Sylva's death, but her heart couldn't help but dream that in the end they would fall in love.  
  
Kitt relayed that he was five minutes out from the hotel and they rushed down to the parking lot to await their arrival.  
  
  
  
"Michael…?"  
  
Michael heard Bonnie's voice and pride his eyes open, surprised to see Bonnie and Donna both leaning into the car once his vision cleared.  
  
"What… what are you doing here?" he mumbled, disoriented and too tired to think.  
  
"You told me to find a hotel where you could rest for the night." Kitt explained defensively.  
  
"Come on, Michael," Bonnie leaned into the car and grabbed his arm, gently tugging on him. Donna guided his legs out and between them they half carried, half dragged him to the elevator and on to their room.  
  
"What happened?" Donna asked, shocked to see the bandage on his left side turn scarlet before her eyes as they laid him on the bed.  
  
"I'm not sure. Evidently he got too close to whoever killed Sylva. Come on, help me get his clothes off, they're soaking wet. I don't know how he ever convinced the doctors to release him so soon, he's burning up with fever."  
  
"What are we going to do?" She stared down at Michael, his face devoid of color, his breathing labored.  
  
"We're going to take care of him." Bonnie said grabbing a pillow and tossing the pillow case to her. "Fill this with ice from the machine down the hall. He'll be fine once we get his fever down."  
  
"But…"  
  
"Just do it!" Bonnie ordered.  
  
Donna rushed out of the room, leaving Bonnie alone for a few precious moments with Michael. She gently traced the bruise along his right cheek as he slept. Someday he would not return to her. Someday the bad guys would win. It was her worst fear, constant and overwhelming at times. She and fought her attraction to him for years. But in the end, she had to admit that she was deeply in love with him. At times she thought he knew, that he even held the same feelings for her. But, that was too much to ask, and she simply continued to try to deny it to herself and all those around her.  
  
  
  
Michael awoke several hours later to the sound of crashing waves and screaming seagulls. He flinched when he felt someone touch his shoulder, the movement tugging on the stitches in his side.  
  
"Lie still," a woman's voice ordered, and through the haze of medication he realized it was Bonnie's voice.  
  
"What are you doing here?" he complained. He remembered telling Kitt to find a hotel for the night, not to involve Bonnie.  
  
"Kitt brought you to us." Michael blinked his eyes until they cleared and he saw both Bonnie and Donna leaning over him, concerned. "Once you passed out it was either here or back to the hospital. Kitt thought you would prefer us as your nurses."  
  
"He shouldn't have. What if we were followed?"  
  
"I made very sure we were not Michael." Kitt's voice emanated from the comlink. "If you had remained at the hospital for another twenty four hours like you should have, this would not be necessary."  
  
"Alright Kitt, you did the right thing." He admitted grudgingly, "but we're wasting time…" He struggled to sit up but both Bonnie and Donna forced him back down.  
  
"You're staying right here in this bed for the next forty-eight hours." Bonnie ordered.  
  
"I appreciate the concern, but…"  
  
"Is he always this stubborn?" Donna asked.  
  
Bonnie nodded. "Always."  
  
Michael felt overwhelmed, too tired to fight both of them. "You win." He sighed, relaxing into the soft pillows.  
  
"Good. Room service is on the way with lunch and after you've eaten we can go over some very interesting information I've managed to gather."  
  
"What?"  
  
"After lunch." Bonnie smirked. It wasn't often that she held the upper hand.  
  
  
  
Lunch came and went and Michael was propped up on a mound of pillows. He listened intently as Bonnie began relating some of the facts she gathered while he slept the morning away. It bothered him that he was loosing precious time, but he needed the time to heal.  
  
Bonnie sat on the edge of the bed, her laptop open. Donna pulled a chair up beside the bed fascinated as she listened to their exchange.  
  
"I ran an extensive check on Randall Sullivan. He was one of Gorham Pharmaceuticals top chemists for six years. He got his BA in pharmacology at UC Berkley and roamed around the world for two years before joining Gorham. He belonged to several ecology organizations, most prominently Greenpeace. Until five months ago he had an unblemished record. The facts are a little sketchy, but he apparently was accused of stealing the formula for a new hypertension drug. He was formally charged by the Grand Jury but soon after Gorham dropped the charges.  
  
"Why? Lack of evidence?"  
  
"The court papers stated that he and Gorham came to an understanding and the charge was dropped. He's been unemployed since."  
  
"The three thousand Sylva got from the paper?"  
  
"It didn't go to him, at least he didn't deposit it in his bank account. In fact his account was going down by the day. He was evidently living off his savings."  
  
"What about Gorham Pharmaceuticals?"  
  
"They're relativity new in the market. They started out as a small company in Summerville Illinois, a couple hundred miles from Chicago. They've grown steadily ever since. In fact they've just broken ground for a new building in San Francisco, near the water front. The land sale was highly contested by the local environmentalists. They were, and still are, afraid run off from the plant will poison the bay. Gorham convinced the necessary authorities that that would not happen. In fact, they already laid the foundation."  
  
"Sullivan stumbled onto something and told Sylva."  
  
Bonnie nodded, "Possibly. Gorham has millions of dollars invested in the project already." She left the implication hanging in the air.  
  
"Keep digging. Find out who lobbied in their behalf."  
  
"I also ran Crestview, tried to tie it somehow with Sullivan or Gorham. No matches. But I'm still looking."  
  
"And Michael…" Kitt's voice came through the computer's speakers.  
  
"Hey Buddy, thanks for the nice accommodations."  
  
"You're welcome, Michael. I thought you would appreciate the excellent nursing staff."  
  
Michael grinned and Donna's face blushed.  
  
"But while you have been convalescing, I have just spent the past two hours going over the footage of your attack last night."  
  
Michael grimaced. "Not a pretty picture."  
  
"No, but every interesting, none the less."  
  
Michael looked toward Bonnie who shrugged her shoulders, as much in the dark as he was. "What have you got?"  
  
The monitor on Bonnie's laptop flickered and Bonnie positioned it so they could all see the screen. "This may not be pleasant to watch, Michael," Kitt warned as the image of him held down on the pier came to life on the small screen, "but look at the man standing above you to your left."  
  
They watched as Kitt froze the frame and zoomed in on the attacker, camouflaged by the black jumpsuits and hoods. The picture tightened until just his right hand filled the screen. He held the bloody knife, still glistening with Sullivan's blood, ready to use on Michael. Michael automatically reached for his side, feeling the stitches beneath the gauze bandage.  
  
"I don't understand, Kitt," Bonnie said, "I don't see…"  
  
"There is an insignia on the hilt of the knife, do you see it?"  
  
Between the middle and index finger of the attacker's hand Michael made out the raised letters T3E  
  
"It stands for The Three Elements: Earth, wind and Fire." Kitt explained. "In the early sixties a handful of environmental activists formed the group. It appears that they were a well respected organization until they outgrew themselves and a harsher line took over. Toward the late seventies they became increasingly violent. Toward the end they were responsible for several acts of murder and mayhem. Their leader, Carl Edward Thornton, and several of his followers were arrested and convicted of torching a warehouse where six people lost their lives. The group disbanded soon after."  
  
"And you think they're back." Bonnie ventured.  
  
"There's speculation that some of the more radical members, the ones who were not convicted of the arson charge that landed Carl Edward Thornton in prison, branched off and have resurfaced as guns for hire in the environmental world."  
  
"You think Gorham is their latest target?" Michael stared at the knife on the screen.  
  
"There's been a highly publicized debate over whether to allow Gorham to build near the waterfront. It even involved a special election. Gorham supporters won by a narrow margin."  
  
"A lot of hard feelings."  
  
"And Michael," Kitt replaced the image of the attacker with that of Randall Sullivan, "for a short time Randall Sullivan was part of T3E."  
  
Michael stared at the picture. "Good work, Kitt."  
  
"Thank you."  
  
"Do you think Sullivan was still active?"  
  
"Not likely. Eight months after he left T3E he testified against them, stating that the new leadership had turned too militant. In fact, his testimony was instrumental in their conviction."  
  
"Things change. People change."  
  
"Yes, but…"  
  
"Oh, my God…" Donna blurted out, looking from Michael to Bonnie, stunned. "I'd forgotten. I… I was so scared. I…" She rolled her sweater sleeve up, her hand shaking, pointing to a dark purple bruise on her right bicep. "when… he pulled me out of the shower his ring bruised my arm. I remember looking at it because he wore it on the outside of his glove. It was the same letters. T3E. I can't believe I forgot something like that." She reached her hand out toward Michael then pulled it back, "Michael, I'm sorry. Maybe if I'd remembered you wouldn't have been…"  
  
"Hey, don't think like that, it's not true. I got hurt because I did what I always do, I leaped before I thought. But now, because of you and Kitt, we have something concrete to go on."  
  
Donna leaned back in her chair, too overwhelmed. Tears began to brim over her eyelashes. "When" she asked, "is it going to stop?"  
  
"Soon," Michael promised. "Very soon."  
  
  
  
Devon grabbed onto the handrail that lined the length of the Foundation's semi trailer as the truck swerved unexpectedly, hopefully due to the condition of the traffic outside and not the hotheaded driver he had acquired several weeks ago. He was on his way to meet Michael and Bonnie. Despite the fact that Michael had challenged his authority, and some form of punishment would have to be dealt out when this was all over, Michael had stumbled onto something far bigger and potentially more dangerous than Distal and his drugs.  
  
He instructed Kitt not to mention his arrival. At least he could enjoy the element of surprise. As the semi pulled off the main road and made its way down the unpaved path to the condominium Devon was impressed by the location. Accessible only by this narrow road and the sea, it afforded near perfect security. With the enhanced security equipment he had in the semi, Devon felt reassured that Donna Myers would be safe while Michael and Kitt were away.  
  
  
  
Bonnie froze when she heard someone tapping at the door. She hadn't ordered room service and she had hung the 'Do Not Disturb' sign on the outside door handle. Had someone followed Michael after all?  
  
Michael collected the bed sheets around him and painfully swung his legs over the edge of the bed, surprised at how weak he still felt. He motioned Donna into the bathroom and ordered her to lock the door then stood next to Bonnie.  
  
"Who is it?" Bonnie demanded.  
  
"It's Devon," the familiar voice answered.  
  
"Devon?" Bonnie looked at Michael, "What is he doing here?"  
  
"I suggest you open the door," Kitt prompted via the comlink, "and you will find out."  
  
Bonnie unlocked the door and Devon stepped in, carrying a briefcase and a somewhat pleased smirk on his face.  
  
"Devon," Bonnie rushed past him to close and lock the door, "what are you doing here?"  
  
Devon raised an eyebrow at Michael's makeshift attire and nodded toward the bed, "I was informed by the hospital staff that you were to remain in bed for at least forty-eight hours. By my calculations it has been only twelve."  
  
"Is that why you're here?" Michael asked, still astounded to see Devon standing before him. The last time they had spoken, despite a hint of softening, Devon was still livid that he had disobeyed a direct order. There would still be hell to pay for that one.  
  
"I wish it were, my boy." He looked around the room, "Your guest, Miss Myers?"  
  
Bonnie grinned self- consciously, she had forgotten Donna for the moment. She knocked on the bathroom door and assured Donna that it was safe to come out.  
  
  
  
Frightened, Donna quickly made her way over to Michael, all the while not taking her eyes of Devon.  
  
"Donna Myers," Bonnie motioned toward Devon. "This is Devon Miles, our boss."  
  
"Miss Myers," Devon extended his hand, shaking Donna's trembling hand gently, "it is a pleasure to finally meet you. Although I wish it were under better circumstances."  
  
Donna nodded, still taken aback by the new arrival.  
  
"I am terribly sorry for your loss and I intend, along with Michael and Bonnie, to find who is responsible."  
  
"Thank you."  
  
"There is no need for thanks, Miss Myers, we are…"  
  
Michael suddenly swayed, and both Bonnie and Donna grabbed him, leading him toward the bed, fussing over him as he tried to deflect their well intentioned ministrations. A slight smile played at Devon's lips. Whatever danger Michael faced ahead, in the end, the ultimate battle would be between those two women. He envied and pitied Michael at the same time.  
  
  
  
"I was able to call in some long standing favors," Devon explained as he settled into a chair facing the bed and opened his briefcase pulling out a rather large file. "As per your request Bonnie," Devon sorted through some of the papers and handed her several sheets. "Here is a list of all the incoming and outgoing calls from both Sylva Sidney's residence and employment."  
  
"All calls?" Donna blanched.  
  
"My dear," Devon said softly, "your personal business is your personal business. But we are at the moment investigating two murders. Your calls will remain confidential unless we deem them to be evidence. Nothing, and I stress, nothing at this point indicates that you had any connection to your friends murder."  
  
Bonnie looked toward her, confused.  
  
"There are several calls to and from the St. Francis Hotel over the past six months." Devon clarified.  
  
"Carl Addison." Donna said, her voice wavering. "He is Captain on the San Francisco to Hong Kong run. He is also a very unhappily married man. We've been seeing each other for three years."  
  
Bonnie reached over and gently patted her hand, "We are not here to judge you Donna. Look, I won't lie to you and tell you when this is all over your life will go back to being just the same as it was. It won't happen. You've changed, everything around you has changed. The best we can do is find out who killed Sylva and why. After that it is your job to pick up the pieces and begin again. It won't be easy, but we will be there for you."  
  
"Bonnie is right," Devon assured her, "we will do everything possible to help you."  
  
Donna looked toward Michael, needing his understanding, and for whatever reason, his forgiveness. She found it in his smile. She nodded, knowing whatever happened from this moment forth her life had been irrevocably changed.  
  
"Most of the phone calls seemed to be just day to day conversations." Devon continued. "We confirmed each phone number, discretely of course. There are two numbers, however, that sent up a red flag."  
  
Bonnie looked through the lists of numbers and names attached and shook her head. "I see nothing here except for a sudden craving for Thia food."  
  
"Thia food?" Donna sat forward. "Sylva would never order Thia food. She couldn't stand anything spicy. She thought Taco Bell was spicy."  
  
"Then why the sudden change?" Michael grunted as he tried to adjust the pillow beneath him and glowered at both women as they jumped toward him to help. They both sat back down sheepishly and Devon merely suppressed a wicked smile.  
  
"The other two numbers," Devon pressed on, "were to a Professor Addison Beaumont at UC Berkeley and a Dr. Fredrick DeNapoli at Stanford University. Beaumont returned her call after Sylva tried to contact him six times. DeNapoli answered her after two."  
  
"Any idea what she wanted from them?"  
  
"Professor Beaumont is the leading expert on environmental contamination and Dr. DeNapoli heads the biohazard department. He has been very vocal in the past about waste management, especially chemical compounds derived from the manufacturing of plastics and pharmaceuticals."  
  
"It seems that all roads lead back to Gorham." Bonnie said handing Devon the sheet of phone numbers back.  
  
"Indeed. I have secured two appointments for tomorrow. One with Professor Beaumont at Berkeley, which I will attend myself, and the other with Dr. DeNapoli which you will attend Bonnie."  
  
Michael looked around the room, "And me?" he asked. "What am I supposed to be doing?"  
  
"Resting." Devon patted him on the knee. "Don't worry my boy, you will be in the thick of things again in no time. And, you must admit that Bonnie is much more qualified to interview Dr. DeNapoli than you are."  
  
Michael turned to Bonnie and glared.  
  
"Sorry Charlie," she grinned back, "it's brains over brawns this time."  
  
  
  
Devon and Bonnie spent the night in the semi since the room was not large enough to accommodate four people comfortably. Donna insisted on sleeping on the couch despite Michael's assurance that he would be more than comfortable on the sofa.  
  
Donna awoke just before sunrise. She had slept lightly, awakening each time Michael moaned faintly in his sleep as he moved the wrong way and tugged at the stitches. At one time she had gotten up and turned the bathroom light on giving her enough light to watch as he slept. She thought that men like him only existed in writer's imaginations. But he was real. Putting his life on the line to help complete strangers, determined to set right a dead woman's reputation and her cause. He was everything a young girl dreamed of, everything a young woman longed for. And he was with her now. She leaned over the bed and kissed him lightly on the cheek, seeing a faint smile touch his lips. Who was kissing him in his dreams? If only it could have been her. She turned the light out and went back to the couch falling into a light sleep listening to the rhythm of his breathing and the crashing waves outside the window. Under any other circumstances this would have been idyllic.  
  
  
  
Michael awoke to the smell of fresh coffee and eggs. Donna held a platter of food and placed it on the small table on the balcony overlooking the ocean.  
  
"I thought you would be hungry by now," she called back into the room, "you hardly ate a thing yesterday."  
  
Michael found his clothes neatly folded at the edge of the bed and slipped them on then joined Donna at the small table.  
  
"I'm starving," he grinned, digging into the scrambled eggs and toast.  
  
"Bonnie told me your favorite breakfast included fried potatoes and bacon, but I thought you should start off with something a bit lighter."  
  
Michael looked back into the room. "They're not here?" he asked around a mouth full of eggs.  
  
"Michael," Kitt's voice rang up from the comlink, "it is already eleven fourteen in the morning. You have nearly slept the entire morning away."  
  
"Why didn't you wake me?" Michael asked, annoyed. There were too many things to be done for him to sleep this late.  
  
"You needed your rest." Donna defended Kitt, refreshing his coffee and sitting back to watch him finish his breakfast. "Besides, Bonnie made us promise not to wake you."  
  
"When did they leave?"  
  
"Before seven this morning."  
  
"They should be back soon." Kitt assured him.  
  
Michael spotted a news paper folded on the table and began to skim through it, still mad at himself for missing the better part of the day. He needed to be back on the road, doing something, anything. Enforced inactivity was like torture to him.  
  
  
  
Devon's meeting with Professor Beaumont was unproductive, to say the least. After being seated in the Professor's office, Devon waited a tedious twenty minutes before Beaumont arrived. In his mid fifties, Beaumont was tall, slender and wore his shocking long, white hair down his back in a ponytail. His casual attire of blue jeans and plaid woolen shirt seemed in stark contrast to his office filled with expensive wooden furniture and gold embossed frames displaying a number of honors and degrees.  
  
"I'm a busy man, Mr. Miles." Beaumont said as he slipped into his desk chair and began riffling through a stack of papers. "My secretary said it was an urgent matter. Under most circumstances I would never see anyone on such short notice, but for some reason she agreed. What is it that I can do for you and why is it so urgent?"  
  
"I work for an organization called The Foundation For Law and Government, Professor Beaumont," Devon began, "we…"  
  
"Super Cops." Beaumont looked up, a distasteful look on his face.  
  
"We are an organization that helps people who have fallen through the system for one reason or the other." Devon corrected.  
  
"Nobel of you."  
  
"Sylva Sidney contacted you several times over the past…" Devon began, finding it hard to keep his voice level. Beaumont was the most arrogant man he had met in some time.  
  
Beaumont grabbed the phone sitting next to his elbow and jabbed at the intercom button, "Ms. Murtaug," he fumed, "what did I tell you about Sylva Sidney and anyone associated with her?" Whatever explanation the secretary tried to give, Beaumont would not let her finish. "I don't care. I gave you strict orders not to let that woman bother me again."  
  
"Rest assured," Devon said coldly, "Miss Sidney will never bother you again. She's dead."  
  
Devon waited for the reaction that never came.  
  
"She was murdered." Devon added.  
  
"So? I didn't kill her. She was just another pain-in-the-ass journalist looking for another story to run rampant with. Mr. Miles, I have no love of journalists. They latch onto a story, twist it and turn it to fit in their pigeon hole of a mind, be damned the truth or the consequences. I told Miss Sidney I would not cooperate with her or anyone from the press in any way. But she continued calling. I am a busy man. And now, here you are, taking up more of my time."  
  
"I hope Professor Beaumont," Devon said as he slowly stood up, "that you never find yourself in a position to ask help from someone as arrogant as yourself."  
  
"Excuse me?" Beaumont looked up, his face turning red.  
  
"I have met a lot of people in my life and I have to say that you are, by far, the most unconscionable human being I have ever encountered."  
  
"How dare you come into my office and…"  
  
"Whatever" Devon continued coldly, "Sylva Sidney was working on was important enough to cost her her life. If, and I say this without much hope of striking a human emotion in you, the information she requested could have saved her life, I hope you are prepared to live with that fact the rest of your life. And," he said as he walked out the door, "let us hope whatever it was that she was trying to uncover does not end up costing us all."  
  
As Devon slammed the door behind him he noticed the secretary still had the intercom open a look of distain on her face. "He can be such an asshole sometimes," she whispered, "here," holding a file to the side of the desk, "I put this together for Sylva. I hope it helps."  
  
Taking the file with trembling hands Devon slipped the file into his briefcase, "Thank you, my dear."  
  
"I never got to meet her, but she was so sweet to me. I hope you find the bastards who killed her."  
  
"We will." Devon promised.  
  
"And," she pointed to the file, "my home phone number is there. Call me when you find out."  
  
"I will, my dear, I promise."  
  
  
  
  
  
Bonnie stood in the center of controlled chaos. Dr. DeNapoli's office on the Berkley campus was a mobile unit hooked up to the school's generator. A dozen men and woman ranging in age from late teens to late sixties scurried around in the tight quarters, updating graphs that covered every inch of the walls and inputting data in several computers sitting in the center of the room.  
  
Bonnie called out, "I'm looking for Dr. DeNapoli," and the room suddenly went silent, no one even breathed. "I have an appointment with him." She said nervously, feeling every eye on her, "my name is Bonnie Barstow…"  
  
"Miss Barstow, welcome." A man no taller than five foot one came bustling out from behind a bank of computers, balancing half a dozen charts in his hand along with a cup of coffee. "I'm so glad you made it. I was stunned to hear about Sylva's death."  
  
"You knew her?" Bonnie asked, following DeNapoli to a desk already overloaded with binders and charts.  
  
"Not well enough, I'm afraid. We only met on two occasions. Would you like a cup of coffee? It's not very good but it's strong."  
  
"Thank you, but no. I'm not a big coffee drinker."  
  
"Wise. Now," he dropped the charts on the desk along with most of his coffee. "What can I do for you?"  
  
"I work for the Foundation for Law and Government," she handed him a card, "and…"  
  
"You work for FLAG?"  
  
Bonnie nodded, not quite sure what to expect next.  
  
A wide grin spread across DeNapoli's face. "Three years ago you were instrumental in shutting down Kessler Electronics in San Antonio."  
  
Bonnie immediately remembered the case. Seth Kessler was president and CEO of Kessler Electronics. Companies using computer hard drives and other non- biodegradable units shipped them to Kessler for proper disposal. Instead, Kessler pocketed the money and dumped everything in the local landfill until Michael and Kitt took an unexpected plunge into the refuge pit and discovered the evidence.  
  
"He's still serving three years of a twenty year sentence." Bonnie grinned. She could still see the look of consternation on Michael's face when he returned to the semi still reeking with the smells of garbage. It was one of those moments she would never forget.  
  
"I hope they tack on another ten for stupidity. But you're not here because of Kessler."  
  
"We are investigating the death of Sylva Sidney. Phone records indicate that you talked with her on two occasions."  
  
"Big brother is watching… huh?"  
  
Bonnie found herself both angered and drawn to the small man. "I won't apologize for our tactics in finding her murder, Mr. DeNapoli."  
  
"Forgive me. My sense of humor sometimes gets the better of me. I'll help in any way I can. Let's go outside where we can at least hear each other talk?"  
  
Bonnie nodded, glad to get out of the claustrophobic motor home. On their way out DeNapoli grabbed a blanket and an old fashioned picnic basket.  
  
As he spread the blanket out on the lawn he apologized, clearly embarrassed by his actions. "Don't think I'm being forward, Miss Barstow. We work under great pressure at times. When the Valdez ran aground in 1989 we worked non stop for two weeks until we had every one needed in place. You know that 5.8 million gallons of crude oil spilled out in less than a quarter hour? It was an environmental catastrophe, one that can happen again anytime, any day, throughout the world. It all inevitably affects us."  
  
"I am honored," she said, helping him spread the well stocked picnic basket on the blanket. She pulled out packets of freeze dried foods from hotdogs to potato salad, accompanied with specially wrapped hotdog buns and condiments. Freeze dried fried chicken and a bottle of apple juice rounded out the perfect picnic lunch.  
  
Bonnie waited until DeNapoli was comfortably settled before she broached the first question. She had to admit the setting was idyllic and the company very pleasurable.  
  
"Can you tell me why Sylva wanted to see you, Mr. DeNapoli?" she asked.  
  
"Call me Freddy, please. My parents are of the old school and insist I answer only to Fredrick. But I prefer Freddy."  
  
"I think I prefer Freddy too." Bonnie grinned. She couldn't help but be caught up in is charm, it seemed so natural and unrehearsed.  
  
Bonnie took a deep breath, analyzing in her mind just how much she should tell Fredrick DeNapoli. But somehow his infectious condor broke down all her defenses and she related everything. "Michael Knight found Sylva dead outside a sleazy restaurant on the San Francisco waterfront."  
  
"The same Michael Knight involved in the Kessler Electronics case?"  
  
"One in the same. Michael has a penchant for stumbling into some of the most bizarre cases."  
  
"He was on another case?"  
  
"He was after a drug dealer. Instead he found Sylva posed, as he described it, in the back alley in the worst part of town. For some reason, and I am not sure why, he has become obsessed with finding her killer."  
  
"If you had met Sylva you would know why." Freddy turned away, his eyes focused on nothing.  
  
Bonnie reached her hand out touching Freddie's hand lightly, "We need to know what she was working on."  
  
"She didn't go into detail. She wanted everything I have on pharmaceutical waste."  
  
"Any company in particular?"  
  
"Gorham Pharmaceuticals."  
  
"And…?"  
  
"I told her the truth, they have been scrupulous in their paperwork. Every 'T' crossed, every 'I' dotted. They are the kind of company we never take our eyes off of. One wrong move, intentionally or unintentionally could spell disaster." He inched across the blanket, just a little closer. "You see, everything we do has a direct effect on our surroundings. Waste from labs around the world eventually end up here…" He snapped a blade of grass and rolled it between his fingers, "air pollution, water pollution, it all makes its way back into the soil. We are being poisoned little by little every time we take a breath, every time we touch a blade of grass or brush against a leaf or flower. Every time we hug our dog or cat who has been laying in the contamination we are ourselves being contaminated."  
  
"You paint a bleak picture." Bonnie said, aware of the problem but not obsessed to the extreme.  
  
"The picture is painting itself. And until we do something about it we are all killing ourselves."  
  
"You told this to Sylva?"  
  
"Of course. I tell it to every one who will listen. The more people who open their eyes to what is truly going on in the world the more chance we have for survival."  
  
"What did she say?"  
  
"She agreed. She said she knew one of the worst offenders."  
  
"Did she say who?"  
  
"No. Just that all hell would break lose when she broke the story. You think this has something to do with her death?" Freddy moved a little closer again, his enthusiasm shiny bright in his eyes. "If she knew something… Think about it. She could do more good for the cause with one article than…"  
  
"She's dead Freddy." Bonnie reminded him softly, watching the color drain from his face.  
  
"I didn't mean to sound…"  
  
"I know you didn't. I promise, we won't let her death go unnoticed. She died because she thought she could make a difference. We'll make sure that difference counts."  
  
Freddy nodded. "So many people just don't give a damn. When you find someone who does, it's hard to let go."  
  
Bonnie raised her cup of apple juice for a toast, "Here's to those who care."  
  
"Here, here."  
  
"Do you remember anything else you two discussed?" Bonnie asked trying to get back on track.  
  
"She was only here for a short time. She had another meeting scheduled."  
  
"With who?"  
  
"She didn't say."  
  
"Did she mention T3E?"  
  
"T3E? What do they have to do with this?"  
  
"You know about them?  
  
"Of course. They were as vocal as Greenpeace at one time. It was a terrible blow to the environmental community when they were disbanded."  
  
"They may have returned as some form of rouge group."  
  
"I've heard rumblings, but nothing concrete."  
  
Bonnie set aside her plate and prepared to stand up. "Thank you Freddy, this was a wonderful lunch."  
  
"Are you sure you don't want dessert?" He scrambled inside the picnic basket for more tin wrapped delicacies.  
  
"Thank you, Freddy, but I am stuffed. If you hear anything, anything at all, let us know."  
  
"I will." He stood up offering her his hand. "Please. Come back again. It doesn't have to be about a case. Just to talk. I like talking to you."  
  
"And I enjoyed talking to you. But I have to get this information back to the Foundation."  
  
"Will you be giving it to Michael Knight?"  
  
The question caught her by surprise and she found she could not help but grin. "Yes. In fact I'm headed back to see him right now."  
  
"Fine. That's fine. You tell him how much we appreciate all the work he has done for us. He's a great man."  
  
"I will." She turned to head back for her car feeling Freddy staring after her. Michael Knight a great man? This part of the conversation would never touch Michael's ears.  
  
  
  
As Michael slid into the custom made bucket seat he felt instant relief. Two days of confinement was all he could handle. Under most circumstance, he had to admit he didn't mind Bonnie hovering over him when he was injured, or just needed some extra moral support. But with Donna Myers added to the equation he found himself nearly smothered to death. And there was the growing concern of Donna's fragile mental state. She had just lost a close friend, forced to flee her house and live like a fugitive until the ones responsible were found. She needed someone to trust, to believe in. And she had turned to the obvious one, Michael Knight. He had learned, in the past, that it was far too easy to confuse need with love. He could see that she was falling in love with him, her actions, her expressions. But in reality it wasn't true love, just the need to be protected.  
  
"It's good to see you, Michael," Kitt said as they made their way along the dirt road leading to the main highway.  
  
"You have no idea how good it is to see you, Pal." Michael grinned. "You got anything new for me?"  
  
"Amos Hastings. Said he had found two phone messages that may be of interest."  
  
"Good, we'll swing by after I've had something to eat."  
  
"Any place in particular?"  
  
"Yea. In fact there is. The Thai House on Front and Vallejo."  
  
"Michael," Kitt protested, "you never eat Thai food."  
  
"A man can change his mind, can't he? Besides, I'm curious why this restaurant was suddenly on Sylva's must do list. She called them six times in two weeks."  
  
"Perhaps she just acquired a taste for Thai cuisine."  
  
"I doubt it, Kitt. Donna said she hated spicy food."  
  
"Very well, I'll plot a course."  
  
"Great. And while you're at it see if you can come up with some kind of ID that will get me on the Gorham construction site. Everywhere we turn Gorham seems to pop up."  
  
"That may be difficult Michael, those construction sites are notorious for their security."  
  
"I'm sure you'll find a way, Pal." Michael patted the steering wheel. "You always do."  
  
If Michael was not mistaken, he was sure he felt a slight surge in power beneath him. Was Kitt strutting?  
  
  
  
The Thai House was a small restaurant nestled between skyscrapers on three sides. Somehow it had slipped through the cracks and had escaped the wrecking ball as San Francisco continued to grow. The outside was clean and well maintained. As Michael opened the door a rush of warm air filled with pungent aromas engulfed him. Most he could pick out, some must have been unique to Thai cooking.  
  
There were already several couples sitting at tables along with a half dozen people at the counter. It was late afternoon and soon every restaurant in the city would be teaming with locals and tourists alike. He slipped onto a barstool and waited for the tall Taiwanese woman to approach from behind the counter. She was at least five seven, her jet black hair hanging loosely over her shoulders. She wore a pair of tight jeans and vest that slipped open enough to see her firm belly as she moved around. A far cry from what he expected in a traditional Taiwanese restaurant.  
  
"A new face," she said as she poured him a glass of water, not a hint of an accent in her voice.  
  
"I thought I'd take in as many cultures as I could while I'm in town." Michael grinned. "A friend told me to check you guys out."  
  
"Tell your friend thanks." She handed him a menu and leaned forward, her elbows on the counter, her hands supporting her chin as she stared at him. "You in town for long Mr.…?"  
  
"Michael." He offered. "Only as long as it takes me to finish my business."  
  
"And that is?"  
  
Michael declined to answer and pretended to read the menu. It was written in Taiwanese with small English subtitles crudely describing each item. Nothing looked appealing.  
  
"You want some suggestions?" She asked. There was something about her that he liked right away. He had no doubt that many of the customers who returned, returned because of her. When this was all over, he might do the same.  
  
Michael nodded, "Something light. Not too spicy. Traveling does my stomach in."  
  
"You got it. Trust me, this will be a meal you'll never forget."  
  
"Is that a promise or a threat, Miss…?" Michael chuckled.  
  
"Kai-Ping Yang. But you can call me Kai." She wiped the bar top with a cloth and leaned in closer. "That's a promise. You want a beer or a cocktail while you wait?"  
  
"Beer sounds good."  
  
"Bottle or tap?"  
  
"Tap."  
  
"Good choice. You passed the first test."  
  
As the waitress slid the pilsner glass down the bar with practiced perfection Michael grabbed it before it reached the end of the bar deciding he'd better take the plunge soon. He asked, nonchalantly, around a sip of beer, "My friend Sylva, the one who recommended this place, said she was hooked the moment she took her first bite."  
  
Michael saw the almost imperceptible tremor that went through the woman's body as she heard Sylva's name. Bingo: he had made a connection.  
  
Kai-Ping Yang nodded, disappearing into the kitchen to return a few minutes later with a bowl heaping with noodles and sticky white rice topped with vegetables and thick red sauce.  
  
"What is it?" Michael asked.  
  
"Pahd-Pic-Khing." She said in perfect Taiwanese. "A special recipe. It's known to separate the men from the boys." She set a set of chopsticks down on the counter next to the plate and smiled. "You eat this, all of it, and we'll talk." She made an elaborate show of talking away his beer and water.  
  
He hesitated, feeling every eye in the room on him. If this were some kind of rite of passage then he would have to follow it through.  
  
Suddenly the restaurant was quiet. All eyes were on him. He smiled graciously and dug in with the chopsticks.  
  
The first bite sent him into a fit of coughing. He had never tasted anything so hot. The spices burned his mouth, his tongue, seared his throat. His eyes filled with tears, his nose ran.  
  
Outside Kitt became instantly alarmed. Something made Michael's pulse and heat rate spike. His body temperature rose by two degrees.  
  
Michael took another bite and then another, each chopstick full hotter than the last.  
  
A crowd started to form around him. Money among the Taiwanese regulars began passing hands.  
  
Kai-Ping watched in fascination. No non Taiwanese had ever finished a bowl of Pahd-Pic-Khing.  
  
Michael felt as if he were about to pass out. He knew his face must have been fiery red. Sweat poured off his forehead and down his face.  
  
Three more mouth fulls left. He heard chanting begin to rise up behind him. Kai-Pin stared, as everyone else did.  
  
He was down to the last mouthful. The noodles lay at the bottom of the plate, saturated in the hellishly hot sauce. He closed his eyes and stuffed the last into his mouth chewing it as quickly as he could and swallowing it with a loud gulp.  
  
Kai-Ping handed him a fresh cold beer and he downed it. Noting seemed to douse the fiery heat in his mouth. Behind him bets were honored and one by one each man past by him slapping him fondly on the back.  
  
"Return her at eleven-thirty tonight," Kai-Ping said, "we'll talk then."  
  
"Tonight." Michael nodded, his voice a raspy whisper. "You'll be here?"  
  
Kai-Ping nodded, "Sylva was a friend."  
  
Michael headed toward the door. "Hey Michael," she called after him, "a glass of milk is the only thing that will cut the curry."  
  
  
  
Michael slipped behind the wheel, "Milk," he barked, his throat fried, "find me some milk!"  
  
"Michael," Kitt did another quick scan on his partner. "what went on in there?"  
  
"I'll tell you later," he gasped, "just get me that milk."  
  
Kitt pulled away from the curb scanning for the closet drive- through restaurant. Milk? Michael had not had a glass of milk since they met. What had gone on inside there?  
  
  
  
An empty carton of milk sat in the seat next to Michael as they headed back downtown toward the paper. His mouth was no longer on fire but his stomach was a churning mess. He wasn't sure what hurt more, the lump of food or the stitches that tugged at his skin with every movement.  
  
"Michael, how do you always get yourself into such unfathomable situations?"  
  
"Don't know Kitt, I guess it's just my luck."  
  
"Luck has nothing to do with it. If you would only think before you leaped…"  
  
"That's not me, Pal."  
  
"Unfortunately your right." Kitt agreed as Michael pulled into an underground parking lot a few doors down from the paper.  
  
"I won't be long. Keep your scanners peeled and check in with Bonnie. Maybe she had some more luck with Donna."  
  
"Right away, Michael."  
  
  
  
As Michael walked into the building the first thing he noticed was the smell of the paint was gone. He ducked his head into Sylva's office and found that the room had been emptied of everything. Even the walls and floorboards were ripped out.  
  
"Contractors said it would take weeks for the smell of the paint to completely disappear," Amos Hastings said over Michael's shoulder, "so we decided to start from scratch."  
  
"Probably a good idea." Michael studies Amos, "You Ok?"  
  
"Me?" Amos chuckled wearily, "I've been in this business for a lot of years. I've seen the best and the worst, but I go on. And I'll go on again this time. You on the other hand," Amos slowly looked Michael up and down, "look like hell. What happened?"  
  
"I found Sylva's contact."  
  
"You did? What did…"  
  
"I got to him too late. But he did say a name…Crestfield. Does that mean anything to you?"  
  
"No. But I may have something for you. Two things in fact." He walked back toward his office closing the door behind Michael. "I found two phone messages left for Sylva, they were misfiled in another reporters inbox. They both came from the same person. Senator Leon Ross."  
  
"Any idea what he wanted with Sylva?" Michael carefully sank down into the soft leather sofa standing against the far wall, Amos arched an eye as he watched him favor his side.  
  
"No. He just left his name. But I did come up with something else intriguing." Amos walked over to his desk to grab his notes, "We are a small paper here, and behind the times in a lot of ways. We just started using the internet as a source of research. Personally, I think it's too slow. But Sylva loved to use it. I got one of my younger staff members, who is computer literate, to have a look. He was able to trace everything she looked at for the past three months. Here's a list of sites she opened up."  
  
Michael took the three sheets of paper. At a glance it appeared she had a wide variety of subjects she was interested in. "Thanks. I'll take this to my computer expert."  
  
"Anything else I can do?"  
  
"Just keep looking." Michael stood up favoring his side. "It's the little things that can pop a case like this wide open."  
  
"I will. And," Amos nodded toward Michael's injured side, "be careful. I just lost a good friend, I don't want to lose another."  
  
Michael nodded.  
  
  
  
"We may," Michael said as he slipped behind the wheel, "have hit the proverbial jackpot."  
  
"How so?"  
  
Michael laid the pages on the seat next to him and waved his comlink over each page. "Here is a list of sites Sylva opened on the internet, see if you can find anything that stands out and also…" he started the car moving through the labyrinth of underground parking until he pulled back onto the sun backed street, "find out everything you can about a Senator Leon Ross. He left a couple of messages for Sylva."  
  
"Right away. And Michael, while you were busy with Mr. Hastings I was developing a cover for you."  
  
Michael heard a hum and a wallet sized ID appeared from the printer with his picture and the title Seismic Control and Auditing at the top.  
  
"It is well known that San Francisco sits on top of one of the longest fault lines in the world. The San Andres was the epicenter of the 1906 earthquake and several others since. It is only a matter of time before it becomes active again. Therefore every building that is built here, no matter how big or small is closely supervised by seismic authorities. The Gorham building is scheduled for its first inspection in three weeks…"  
  
"But," Michael grinned, "they are going to get a surprised visit today."  
  
"If there are any calls from Gorham to verify your identity I will relay them to Devon who will be happy to provide them with verification."  
  
"You are amazing, Kitt." Michael patted the wheel.  
  
"I know. Now, I have printed up a few of the questions you will be expected to ask. This will give you full access to the entire property."  
  
"Great. What's our ETA?"  
  
"Twelve minutes. It doesn't give you much time to study."  
  
"It'll be enough. Take over."  
  
Michael felt the car gas pedal and steering wheel begin to move on their own and started to study the list of questions Kitt had printed out.  
  
  
  
  
  
Gorham Pharmaceuticals was an immense undertaking. Between building, parking and lawn area it would cover more than two acres. Two old buildings had to be demolished to make way for this huge new one. Sitting kitty-corner to the Bay itself, part of the lawn area would end at a small private wharf used only for Gorham employees. The building process had started months ago. A three story underground parking facility and maintenance base were already dug out and the cement slab and walls poured. Housed on the basement floor would be huge purification systems where water used during manufacturing would be purified. Water and waste, contaminated and deemed harmful to the environment would be stored in special containers for disposal in licensed disposal sites. Huge beams and girders rose up from beneath the poured foundation where at some time in the future they would join with the rest of the structure to form the twenty story building.  
  
The first roadblock Gorham Pharmaceuticals had encountered when they bid for the rights to build on the site was the size of the building itself. Because of its location, butting up against the bay, City Planners denied their permit to build anything higher then twenty stories for aesthetic reasons. Second roadblock was the project itself. Manufacturing pharmaceuticals is inherently dangerous. The possibility of runoff into the bay worried a great deal of very influential people. Added to that the development of new formulas sent environmentalists into a tailspin.  
  
Thirteen months later, an incredibility short time considering the roadblocks they encountered, the two existing buildings on the property were raised and the foundation for Gorham Pharmaceuticals was dug.  
  
All this Michael learned as Kitt filled him with basic information about Gorham. He found the Forman's office and flashed him his credentials, courtesy of Kitt, and began his decent down a steel ladder to the bottom of, what was to be, the three story parking garage. It was late afternoon and the fog had rolled in off the bay dropping the temperature into the low forties. He hugged his leather jacket around himself as he followed the Forman, Ivan Niemi, to the underground staging area. A crude workbench was set up next to the South wall where blueprints and licenses were stored. A bracket was screwed into the cement wall above the bench where a work light hug over the paperwork. Michael made a show of reading through them and asked a few questions, ones that Kitt had prompted him to ask: the type of steel used in the construction and how it was fabricated, the way the columns and beams were to be connected and the type of weld and welding techniques used to assure the building would be seismically sound.  
  
Michael listened to every word, impressed, even if he didn't understand all the terminology. As late afternoon turned to evening a bank of high powered lights strung across the top of the hole switched on bathing the huge room in shifting shadows as the lights swung in the gentle breeze above. Fog spilled in over the lip of the hole and slowly swirled down toward them dropping the temperature even further.  
  
"A hell of a place to be at night," Michael cringed.  
  
"You'd be surprised." Niemi pointed to the ladder they had just climbed down. "We have twenty four hour security here. We had to double it at night and post a guard at the ladder at all times. Homeless, street gangs, kids high on who knows what, we've found them all here until we increased security."  
  
"You won't find me among them," Michael laughed.  
  
"Me neither. Hey, you about done? I'm freezing my ass off down here."  
  
Michael nodded, "Just a couple more things. You can go up top if you want. It's just general visual inspections."  
  
"Na, I'll wait. Just hurry it up. My wife's got dinner waiting."  
  
Michael made a show of studying the metal girders and beams. Turing his back to the Forman he scrapped a small amount of cement from the wall into a small plastic bag and slipped it into his pocket.  
  
"That's it." Michael called. "Let's get out of here."  
  
Niemi motioned for Michael to head up the ladder first. "Watch your step," he warned, "those rungs are slippery in the fog."  
  
Niemi wasn't exaggerating; Michael felt his hands and shoes slip on every rung. It took him twice as long to get back up as it did to get down.  
  
"Thanks for the tour," Michael said offering his hand to Niemi, "you'll have my report in about a week, but everything looks up to code."  
  
"Great. At least I'll have one good thing to tell the boss."  
  
"Having troubles?"  
  
Michael saw Niemi's face turn red: had he said too much? "Just the usual. Can't build something this big without some hitches."  
  
"You got that right. Take it easy, huh?"  
  
"Will do." Niemi waved and disappeared into the Forman's shack.  
  
  
  
"Anything?" Kitt asked as Michael slipped into the car.  
  
"I don't know," Michael said thoughtfully, "the Forman let it slip that they have been having some problems. See if you can dig a little further and find out what they are."  
  
"Problems are expected in a project this large." Kitt said, putting his headlights on as he backed out of the unpaved parking area and into the flow of traffic.  
  
"I know, but just give it a try. Oh, and have a look at this," he opened the analyzer tray and popped in the little plastic bag of cement. "I scraped this off the wall, see if it's up to standard."  
  
"Right away, Michael."  
  
There was a slight hum and the door popped out again. "Standard grade cement, Michael. The ratios are consistent with high grade materials. 6% air, 11%cement, 41% crushed stone, 26% sand and 16% water."  
  
"Strike one."  
  
"I also scanned the metal girders and beams. High density materials. There appears to be no short changing in the basic building materials."  
  
"Strike two. But I still think Gorham is at the root of this. Did you find anything interesting on Sylva's internet history?"  
  
"Nothing that stood out. But I did send a copy to Bonnie. Perhaps she can pick up something that I missed. I also sent her Senator Leon Ross' name."  
  
"Good work, Pal. The more brains in this the better. How is Donna holding up?"  
  
"Bonnie said she is doing as well as can be expected. She keeps asking when you are going to return."  
  
Michael smiled sadly, "She is in a world of hurt, Kitt. I wish I could do more for her."  
  
"You are doing all you can, Michael."  
  
"Yea, well," he took a deep cleansing breath, "hopefully everything will be over soon." He glanced down at the clock on Kitt's dash. Seven-thirty, he still had four hours until his meeting with Kai-Ping.  
  
"We've got four hours to kill Kitt, any suggestions?"  
  
"Dinner?"  
  
"Maybe."  
  
"I'm sure I could find a nice Thai restaurant close by."  
  
Michael glared down at the voice box, if looks could kill, Kitt would be strewn in a million pieces in some abandoned junkyard. "Very funny, Kitt." He growled.  
  
"I thought it was."  
  
  
  
Michael decided to forgo dinner and they headed out to Highway One and the sand dunes. Hidden from sight from anyone on the road Michael nestled into a comfortable position, as comfortable as possible considering his side, and tried to take a short nap. But unlike most other times when no matter what the situation or danger he could fall asleep, sleep wouldn't come this time.  
  
He cracked the window open a bit, feeling the cold dampness of the fog sting his face and heard the sound of the surf rolling onto the beach beyond the dunes in the darkness.  
  
"Michael, something is bothering you, would you like to talk about it?" Kitt offered. Many times Michael had worked his way out of an emotion tailspin by talking to Kitt.  
  
"I'm not sure exactly what it is, Kitt. It's like I am being drawn back to feelings I haven't felt in years."  
  
"What feelings?"  
  
"I don't know. Loss…fear…anger. All the things I felt when I first became Michael Knight."  
  
"It has to do with the death of Sylva Sidney. She has an emotional stronghold on you and I am at a loss to understand why."  
  
"You're not the only one." Michael changed position, thinking hard about asking the question that was on his mind. "Kitt, do you believe in ghosts?"  
  
There was a long hesitation before Kitt spoke, "You mean misty apparitions, disembodied spirits…?"  
  
"Yea, something like that. But I don't mean a physical haunting. I mean… What if…."  
  
"What if Sylva Sidney were guiding you from beyond what ever realm she is in now?"  
  
Michael nodded in the darkness, thankful that it hid the tear that ran down his face.  
  
"I think, Michael," Kitt said gently, "that you are reliving, in a way, your own death and rebirth when you became Michael Knight. When you saw Sylva Sidney laying alone in the darkness it triggered a memory you have pushed into a corner of your mind. The memory of you, laying alone in the darkness, near death. What must have gone through your mind before you lost consciousness? Sylva was the key to unlocking that memory."  
  
Michael stared into the darkness.  
  
"It is easier," Kitt said softly, "to lose yourself in the hunt for her killer than face your own murder all those years ago."  
  
Silence filled the cabin. Michael trying to come to grips with what Kitt had just said, and Kitt fearful that he had said too much.  
  
"I can't stop looking for her murderer." Michael finally said.  
  
"Of course you can't. You could never live with yourself if you did."  
  
"Kitt…"  
  
"Yes Michael?"  
  
"Thanks."  
  
"For what?"  
  
"For always being there. For being my friend."  
  
Kitt simply said, "Ditto."  
  
  
  
It was eleven twenty and Michael pulled into the small parking lot adjacent to The Thai House on Front and Vallejo. There were only a couple of cars parked there but Michael knew that wasn't an accurate count of how many people were still inside the restaurant. Most people who lived in the area opted for public transportation than the hassle of traffic and lack of parking spots.  
  
"Kitt, give me a scan. How many people inside?"  
  
Michael watched as monitor number two switched on showing a schematic of the building with a half dozen or more dots representing the people inside. "Eight, Michael."  
  
Michael looked around the parking lot. Heavy fog obscured everything beyond three feet. Street lamps, set at every corner merely created pools of yellowish light at the top of the poles, the rest of its illumination smothered in the fog. A few people still walked along the sidewalks, huddled in their warm coats.  
  
"I'm not sure it is a wise idea for you to go in there alone, Michael." Kitt said, a hint of concern in his voice.  
  
"Me neither, but I haven't got any other ideas at the moment, do you?"  
  
Silence filled the cabin.  
  
"Ok then," Michael opened the door and the rush of cold damp air hit his bare hands and face. "Keep your scanners peeled and all that stuff, Kitt." Michael called back softly.  
  
Michael felt a soft tingle of electricity on his left wrist beneath his comlink. Kitt's way of wishing him good luck.  
  
  
  
Michael felt a blast of hot air mingled with the pungent smells of Thai spices and stale beer envelope him, threatening to turn his stomach. He could almost taste the fiery hot dish he had eaten that morning.  
  
Kai-Ping stood behind the bar watching his every move.  
  
"My father was certain you would not return." She poured a glass of draft beer and slid it down the bar making Michael take three quick steps to catch it before it crashed to the floor. "I told him you would." She said with a self- assured smile. "The kitchen is closed but I could make you something if you're hungry."  
  
Michael raised his hands in mock horror, "No! I may never eat again."  
  
"Sorry about that. It was my father's test. Most people don't pass it."  
  
"Sylva? Did Sylva have to take your test?"  
  
"No. She was brought here by a friend. We trusted him, so we trusted her."  
  
"If only I could have been so lucky." Michael looked around the room, four men still sat at the bar in different stages of inebriation. "You said if I passed your test I would get answers. Well, I passed and I'm here."  
  
"In a few minutes. Patience is an art, it must be practiced and perfected."  
  
"And," Michael leaned his elbows onto the bar, his face at Kai-Ping's height, "patience is a luxury I haven't got time for."  
  
Someone at the end of the bar tapped his empty glass on the bar and Kai- Ping sighed, "Someone else who has not learned patience."  
  
Michael smiled as he watched her handle the old man, obviously too drunk for another drink. She reached over the bar and gently squeezed his chin between her fingers. "Tomorrow night, Scrubber," she smiled, "get home before the cops haul you in again."  
  
"Ah Kai-Ping, you are an angel among heathens," he slurred.  
  
"And you," she chuckled, "are very drunk." She turned to the man sitting three stools down, "Hey Bronson, I'll give you a free draft tomorrow night if you see that Scrubber makes it home tonight."  
  
Michael marveled at how easily she handled the old drunks. Bronson was one drink away from being as drunk as Scrubber and yet she had painlessly gotten both to leave of their own accord.  
  
"Nicely done," Michael smiled.  
  
"They're both harmless. Another beer?" She nodded to his half empty glass.  
  
"Not tonight. How much longer do I have to wait until…"  
  
Kai-Ping nodded toward the back of the restaurant hidden by dark shadows Why, Michael asked himself, did all these places come with small dark corners?  
  
"They're waiting for you." She said, handing him a bottle of expensive whisky and three shot glasses. "A little peace offering." She smiled, but there was no warmth in her smile. As he took the bottle she grabbed his hand, "Be careful," she whispered, "they are dangerous men."  
  
Michael approached the darkened corner feeling as if he were experiencing deja vue. It was only a couple of nights ago that he had met Randall Sullivan under the same circumstances and the outcome was not what he expected.  
  
What else he didn't expect was to see the old bartender from the bar where Sylva was killed sitting at the table. Sitting next to him, deeper in the darkness, was the figure of a man. Michael set the bottle and three glasses on the table and pulled a chair out with his foot adjusting it so he could not only see the old man and his guest but the rest of the bar. He poured three glasses and watched as the man in shadows leaned forward only enough to grab the glass and held it high as a toast, the deep shadows still keeping his face a secret.  
  
"To Sylva and Randall, may they both find justice."  
  
Michael saluted with his drink and downed the shot in one gulp feeling it hit his already tortured stomach.  
  
The old bartender did the same then started chuckling. "I heard," he said in his broken English, "that you passed the Thai test this morning. I am impressed."  
  
"I was told if I passed I would have my questions answered." Michael reminded him, waiting for a response.  
  
"That," he nodded toward the man in shadows, "is why we are here. But we have questions for you in return."  
  
Michael collected his thoughts. What did he have that they needed? He sat back in his chair watching as he asked his first question, "What connection is there between Sylva Sidney and T3E?"  
  
He saw the bartender stiffen and heard an almost imperceptible gasp from the man in the shadows.  
  
"You see," Michael said, sliding all three shots glasses in front of him. "This is Sylva Sidney." He turned the glass upside down to signify her death. "Then I met Randall Sullivan, supposedly a close friend of Sylva's, and he," Michael flipped the second glass over, "ends up stabbed to death, minutes before he can answer my questions. Now," Michael held up the third glass and slowly twirled it between his fingers, "we have one more with a whole list of possibilities."  
  
"And those possibilities are?" the man in the shadows asked. His voice was deep, articulate. He wasn't one of Kai-Pings regular customers.  
  
Michael shrugged. "Pick one."  
  
"T3E was disbanded years ago." The old bartender said.  
  
"Then why," Michael asked as he drew the small photo of his attacker holding the knife from his breast pocket, "were the four men who attacked Randall Sullivan wearing this insignia on their rings?"  
  
There was a profound silence. The old bartender picked up the photo with shaking hands, his fingers gnarled by age, and studied it closely in the dim light, his eyesight, despite his age, still good.  
  
"They also paid a visit to Sylva's roommate. They ransacked the house and destroyed everything that could be used as evidence."  
  
"We knew of the break ins," the disembodied voice said, "they also destroyed her office."  
  
"What were they after?" Michael waited. He felt a growing uneasiness not being able to see the man sitting in the shadows. There was something subtle about the way he moved, the way he talked that sent a shiver down Michael's spine.  
  
"We also know that you took Ms. Myers into protective custody. We put a tail on you but you left my man in the dust."  
  
"She's safe."  
  
"I'm sure she is. I had you checked out, Mr. Knight." Michael thought he heard an implied threat in shadow man's voice. "You've walked into a very dangerous situation. If you were smart you would leave right now and forget about Sylva, Sullivan and T3E."  
  
Michael grinned, "My partner keeps telling me I'm running on three cylinders." Michael's smile faded, "What were they after?" He asked again.  
  
"What do you know about Gorham Pharmaceuticals?" The old bartender asked.  
  
"Only that every road leads back to them."  
  
Michael felt the tension building.  
  
"Did you find anything at the Gorham site?" The disembodied voice asked.  
  
"You know I didn't." Michael said flatly. He caught Kai-Ping staring at him, her face pale. What was she afraid of? What did she know? What did the old bartender and shadow man know?  
  
The old bartender clapped his hands twice and Kai-Ping announced the bar was closed. She hustled everyone out of the bar, apologizing to each one, promising a free drink the next night.  
  
Michael was startled when shadow man tossed a ring into the glass he still worried in his hand. Slowly he lifted the ring out studying its gleaming black onyx stone and tiny diamonds that spelled out the initials T3E.  
  
"There are only a handful of us left," shadow man said, his chair creaking in the darkness as he shifted nervously in the seat. "Until recently we have stayed underground, supplying information when needed to those we could help most. One of our group members met Randall Sullivan four months ago. You know the rest."  
  
"Why did he contact Sylva?" Michael asked, playing with the ring in his hand.  
  
"We had no idea he was going that route. He was too impatient. We were making progress, found many of the things he accused Gorham of were in fact true. We just needed more time to complete our investigation. Ironically it turns out that there is more there than even Sullivan knew."  
  
"Let me guess," Michael ventured, "as soon as Sylva started snooping around all bets were off. They had to shut her up and Sullivan."  
  
"And now you." The old bartender warned.  
  
"That still doesn't explain this." Michael stabbed the picture of his attackers with his finger. "They your boys?"  
  
"They are a splinter group used to discredit us," the old bartender nodded toward shadow man, "the real T3E. We heard of their existence, you have now confirmed it."  
  
"Alright, I'll buy your story for now." He tossed the ring back into the shadows. "But one more question. What or who is Crestfield?"  
  
Michael waited. The old man leaned into the shadows and Michael could hear mumbled words.  
  
"Crestfiled and Gorham are two tentacles of the same serpent." The old man said, "You find the answer to one you find the answerers to both."  
  
Michael nodded. "What else can you tell me about Gorham?"  
  
"Not here," shadow man said. "its too dangerous to be in one place for so long. We'll contact you. Soon. Meanwhile…" he lifted the final glass on the table and turned it upside down, "To those responsible for Sylva and Randall."  
  
Michael silently reached over and tapped the top of the glass then headed for the door.  
  
"Be careful," Kai-Ping said as she unlocked the door, "I treasure new friends. When this is over I'll take you out for a hamburger."  
  
Michael grinned leaning down to kiss her lightly on the cheek, "That's a date." He whispered. As the door closed behind him he took in a deep breath of cold damp air. He hadn't realized how nervous he really was in there. Kitt pulled up to the curb and he stepped off the landing onto the sidewalk.  
  
  
  
Michael would never fully remember what happened that exact moment. He vaguely remembered the blast of heat picking him up and hurtling him through the air. He landed on his back inches away from Kitt's front tire. He tried to clear his mind, focus his eyes but all he could see was a surreal landscape of fire and smoke leaping into the fog shrouded sky. Suddenly he remembered Kai-Ping smiling as she closed the door behind him. He struggled to his feet, "Kai-Ping," he screamed. He tried to rush toward the building but the fire leaped out over the sidewalk like hungry hands. He heard Kitt pleading to come back, that Kai-Ping was gone. He couldn't accept that. There was nothing left of the building but a blazing inferno. But he couldn't leave her behind. Someone grabbed his arm and pulled him back. He tried to fight them off but his legs collapsed beneath him. He would have crawled in after her if he could but there was no energy left in his body. Unconsciousness dragged him down into blackness as he felt hands dragging him along the sidewalk away from the heat of the fire.  
  
  
  
Michael wasn't sure how long he had been out. He found himself strapped to a gurney being wheeled toward a waiting ambulance. The sounds of high powered water hoses dousing the flames mingled with the constant chatter of police and fire truck radios. A crowd formed a semi-circle around the emergency vehicles mesmerized by the fire as it consumed the old wooden restaurant.  
  
He yanked the oxygen mask off his face then started working on the straps that held him on the gurney.  
  
"Hey, take it easy." A paramedic leaned over him, "You're going to be Ok."  
  
"I am OK," he insisted. "Just let me off this damn thing."  
  
"Let's let the ER doctors decide that." The paramedic tried to fit the mask back on Michael's face but he brushed it away.  
  
"I know my rights. You can't hold me here."  
  
"But I can." A familiar face leaned over him. It took a few moments for Michael's addled brain to recognize Detective Bickford. "You have a way of popping up at the most interesting places." The detective leaned down and adjusted the oxygen mask himself, "Sylva Sidney's ransacked apartment. Down at the wharf where Randall Sullivan was stabbed and now here."  
  
Michael stared up at the detective, his mind reeling, his ears still throbbing from the force of the explosion.  
  
"I was told you were the last one out before the explosion. You know anything about that?"  
  
A paramedic nudged his shoulder in between Bickford and Michael, "You can ask your questions later after he's checked by ER."  
  
"Don't go anywhere, Knight, not until we have a chance to talk. I think you and I have a lot to talk about."  
  
"Wait…" Michael grabbed Bickford's wrist, desperation in his eyes, "Any survivors?"  
  
Bickford looked at the smoldering carcass of what was once the Thai House, "No."  
  
Michael closed his eyes no longer fighting the paramedics as they lifted him into the waiting ambulance. He would save his strength. Whoever was behind this would pay. For Sylva Sidney and now Kai-Ping.  
  
  
  
Kitt once again endured the indignities of being hauled onto a truck and transported to Police Impound. But in doing so he was able to acquire a great deal of information that would make Michael happy once he was released from the hospital. Soon after the explosion Kitt contacted Devon and Bonnie. Michael would recover quickly, a moderate concussion, broken ribs and some smoke inhalation, nothing time and rest would not mend, rest being a major roadblock when it came to Michael. And there was also the more delicate problem of Michael's emotional status. He felt overwhelming guilty. Not only was he carrying the specter of Sylva Sidney, he now added Kai-Ping.  
  
It was decided it was no longer safe for Donna to be anywhere but at the Foundation and Bonnie headed home in the Semi. Devon stayed on in case Michael needed help with the authorities. It appeared he had already crossed horns with a Detective Bickford. Devon gathered everything he had on Gorham Pharmaceuticals, the information Kitt had garnered on his trip to the impound yard and the latest information from the arson squad and headed for the hospital.  
  
  
  
"Doc says you'll be out by tomorrow afternoon." Detective Bickford stood next to Michael's bed jotting down notes in a small notepad. "You said there were there people left in the restaurant when you stepped outside."  
  
Michael nodded. "Kai-Ping Yang, an old man and someone sitting in the shadows nursing a drink." His head pounded like a jack hammer were inside working on his skull. He still felt dizzy and nauseated from the concussion not to mention the three broken ribs to add to the healing knife wound. When would an assignment be painless?  
  
"That's funny," Bickford said staring down at him, "from reports I got from two old guys who were rushed out of the building a few minutes before it went up, you were sitting in the back having a cozy conversation with the old man and someone else who deliberately hid in the shadows."  
  
"It's not a crime to have a drink in a bar."  
  
"Arson is."  
  
Michael sat up too fast, the world spun around threatening to toss him off the bed. The detective continued talking and Michael could only bite his lip, praying for the room to stop spinning.  
  
"You've been involved in just about everything that's been iffy here in town. Why is that, Mr. Knight? Why have you personally been involved in three murders?"  
  
"You don't think Sylva OD'd anymore?" Michael asked through clinched teeth.  
  
"Let's just say I'm leaning toward other ideas." Bickford pointed at the uneaten food on Michael's tray, "you gonna eat that?" Michael glared at him, willing his stomach to settle down. "Great. Do you mind? I haven't had time to eat this morning. So tell me," he said around a mouthful of cold scrambled eggs, "what is really going on? I checked you out, Knight. You don't seem to exist. FBI, Interpol, military. It's hard to believe a man like you wouldn't have his fingerprints on record somewhere. Good breakfast, you sure you don't want some?" Michael ignored him. "For hospital food this isn't bad. Now, I've seen that car of yours," he deliberately took his time spreading jam on a piece of toast. "You've got money backing you up, somewhere. And that's all right with me, it's a big city, I'll take any help I can get, except when it comes to murder." He pushed the tray aside, leaning down until he was only inches from Michael's face. "I don't want to see your face anywhere near…"  
  
"Excuse me, is there a problem here?" Michael looked past Bickford's shoulder to see Devon standing in the doorway, his face livid.  
  
Bickford stood up slowly, "No problem," he threw the half eaten slice of toast back on the tray, "just sharing a little breakfast with a friend. And you?"  
  
Devon let the door close behind him, "I too am a friend of Michael's, and I believe he needs his rest." He nodded toward the half eaten tray of food, "If you are that hungry perhaps you should try the commissary downstairs."  
  
Bickford adjusted his suit and put his hat back on taking time to cock the Fedora at just the right angle, "Thanks, but I'm full now." He walked toward the door calling back to Michael, "Remember, I don't ever want to see your face around here again." Bickford made a show of brushing Devon's shoulder with his as he walked past.  
  
"What a detestable man, "Devon said as the door closed behind Bickford, "I assume he is the local law?"  
  
"Detective Bickford. I kind of like him."  
  
"That concussion has addled your brain. What can you see in an egregious lout like…"  
  
"He reminds me of some of the old timers I used to work with on the force. It's just his way. He's a good cop."  
  
"Yes well, we are all entitled to our opinions. Now, how are you feeling?"  
  
"Good enough to get out of here."  
  
"The doctors want to keep you overnight for observation. Besides it gives us time to regroup."  
  
"Donna?"  
  
"Bonnie is taking her to the Foundation in the semi as we speak. It's too dangerous for her to be anywhere but the Foundation at the moment." Devon dragged a chair over to the bed, "How are you feeling, my boy? Truthfully."  
  
Michael looked toward Devon, a strange look in his eyes, "Truthfully I think I'm losing it, Devon. I don't know if I'll ever get passed this case if we can't break it. I feel like I'm being pulled in a dozen different directions all at once."  
  
"You are simply overwhelmed, Michael. We all are in fact. But you, most of all, have carried the brunt of this case, and for that I am profoundly sorry."  
  
Michael reached over and laid his hand atop Devon's, "You have nothing to be sorry about. I disobeyed a direct order for reasons I still can't explain, and it's been mushrooming ever since."  
  
"Yes well, hopefully we'll be able to make some headway here, that is if you are up to some verbal sparring."  
  
Michael nodded, carefully settling into a comfortable position.  
  
"Bonnie and I delved deeply into Gorham Pharmaceuticals' history and came up with a few interesting facts. From the outside they have been nothing short of amazing. Founded by the brother sister team, Dorothy and Steven Gorham, ten years ago, they opened their first plant in Newburg New Jersey. They were exclusively a production company at the time, no testing, no development. After two years they closed shop, for no apparent reason and moved to Summerville Illinois. There they began developing formulas. They attracted some of the finest minds in pharmaceutical chemistry and won numerous awards for excellence in their field. Two years ago they developed a new drug for hypertension. It was tested by the FDA in record time and last month hit the markets."  
  
"Isn't that a little fast?"  
  
"Indeed. Most drugs take three to six years to hit the market. None the less, the drug has been an outstanding success and Gorham's financial status has soared. There has been speculation, however, that something is amiss, but absolutely no proof. Everyone has had a crack at them, from the FDA to the DEA and everything in between. Nothing. Gorham attributes the speculation to bad blood between pharmaceutical companies."  
  
"It's more than bad blood. The old bartender said Gorham and Crestfield were two tentacles from the same serpent. We find Crestfield and we find Gorham's dirty little secret."  
  
Devon nodded "I agree. And their financial success has been phenomenal as well. Too phenomenal. Their overhead for testing and development is far lower then industry standards. Their answer is efficient management. Which" Devon sighed, "takes me to Sacramento tomorrow for a meeting with Senator Ross. It may be a long shot but he did try to contact Sylva."  
  
  
  
"Good idea."  
  
"And you? I suppose it would be too much to expect that you would rest for a couple days."  
  
"Nothing strenuous, I promise."  
  
Devon cocked an inquisitive eyebrow toward Michael.  
  
"I thought I'd pay a visit to Dorothy and Stephen Gorham. It's about time we met the top brass."  
  
"Yes, well," Devon stood up, feeling older than his years, "I'm sure that will be an interesting meeting. May I suggest diplomacy?"  
  
"I promise I will be on my best behavior." Michael looked up at him seriously, "Watch your step. We don't know who the bad guys are around here."  
  
"Advice you should take to heart as well, my boy. Now, if I am not mistaken, a nurse will arrive any minute to tell me visiting hours are over."  
  
Right on cue the door opened and Devon was ushered out. Michael relaxed back into the pillows, his mind racing. What was the answer to the puzzle? What was so important that five people had to lose their lives? The thought preyed on his mind that he had already found the answer, but just didn't know it yet. He closed his eyes knowing sleep would not come easily that night.  
  
  
  
  
  
Bonnie carefully balanced two steaming mugs of coffee as the semi rolled down the freeway. They had been on the road all day. They would reach the Foundation in another hour. Bonnie set the mug of coffee on the small table next to Donna, fascinated as she watched her carefully stuff rolled up newspaper into a cloth dog, its stuffing stripped out when her house was vandalized.  
  
"How could they?" Donna asked, fighting back the tears. "Maximillian was Sylva's favorite. She took him everywhere with her."  
  
"Maximillian?"  
  
"Maximillian Kolbe. Sylva named him after the Patron Saint of Journalists. She always said he was the only one she could trust with all her secrets..."  
  
"Its good to have something that you can…" Bonnie suddenly stopped, her eyes glued to the half stuffed dog. "…you said she told Maximillian all her secrets?"  
  
"It was a joke of course…."  
  
"I'm not too sure about that. Do you mind?" Bonnie held her hand out for the semi stuffed dog. Donna hesitantly passed it over to Bonnie. Bonnie quickly began tearing out the paper, feeling the seams, rubbing her hands along the material until she came to the big brown puppy eyes. Wordlessly she rushed over to the computer and scanned the glass eyes with a wand.  
  
Donna, her fear replaced by curiosity, watched Bonne type in a series of instructions. She leaned over Bonnie's shoulder as she watched each eye appear on the computer screen. Painstakingly, Bonnie enlarged each eye, alternating from the brown of the iris to the black of the pupil. Slowly characters began to appear on each eye. At each enlargement the characters became clearer until entire sentences appeared.  
  
"My God…" Donna watched as paragraphs of an alphabet she didn't recognize appeared on both the brown and black part of the eyes. "How did you know?" she whispered, stunned by the discovery.  
  
"You said it," Bonnie grinned. "She trusted Maximillian with all her secrets"  
  
"But how could Sylva… Where would she learn to do something like this?"  
  
"I don't know. Not working for a small newspaper. This is expensive technology.  
  
But once we break this code." Bonnie turned to her, her face flushed with excitement, "we'll have our first substantial lead. I've got to tell Michael."  
  
  
  
  
  
"Stop the grousing, Kitt." Michael snapped. He wasn't feeling his best, mentally or physically and Kitt had not stopped complaining once in the past twenty minutes. First it was about his leaving the hospital early, an argument they had quite often, then the amount of time he had spent on this case in Police impound yards. Probably for Kitt, as repugnant as the hospital was for Michael.  
  
Now he was upset because they were stuck behind a cable car slowly making its way up Union Street, its underground cable system slowly dragging it up the steep hill.  
  
"Why," Kitt asked, "do people subject themselves to such indignities? Why crowd themselves like sardines into an antiquated form of transportation that struggles to go even five miles an hour?"  
  
"Kitt, it's one of the mystics of San Francisco. Cable Cars, fog, The Golden Gate Bridge. Everyone has to experience them at least once."  
  
"At the expense of others? Have they never considered what these monstrosities do to the natural flow of traffic?"  
  
"That, Kitt, is why you are an A.I. housed inside a Trans AM and not the head of tourisms. Give me an ETA on Gorham's."  
  
"Seven point twenty two minuets. I'm still at a loss as to why you are visiting them in the first place."  
  
"I want to put a face to a name, Pal. So far all I've heard is Gorham this and Gorman that. I want to see for myself what a Gorham looks like."  
  
"I believe, Michael that that concussion muddled your brain more then you are willing to admit." Kitt sighed, pulling a hard right only to find himself facing a street that literally dropped out from beneath him. So steep was this hill that Kitt noticed they had to build steps into the sidewalks for pedestrians to walk up and down. "Oh my…San Francisco is definitely not auto friendly."  
  
Kitt slipped into an open parking spot a block from Gorham Pharmaceuticals. He disliked the closed in feeling he got from big cities like this. From the towering skyscrapers that blocked the sunlight to the constant cacophony of cars and trucks honking their horns jockeying for position on the all too crowded streets. He disliked it all. He was happiest when he was on the open road. Added to that was the constant nagging feeling that Michael was about to walk into something he was not going to be able to get out of easily. He couldn't shake the feeling that this case was so much bigger than anyone realized yet.  
  
"Do you have a plan, Michael?"  
  
"Kinda."  
  
"Why am I not overjoyed?"  
  
"Look, Kitt, I'm just going to go in and have a look around."  
  
"Just be careful. I don't want to spend another minute in the police impound yard."  
  
"Don't worry, Kitt, I'll be back before your engine cools down."  
  
"Very funny."  
  
As Michael climbed out of the car he noticed the parking meter for the first time. He patted his empty jacket pockets and looked back at Kitt. The red scanner blinked twice and Michael heard the meter click over. He had two hours to finish his business.  
  
"Thanks, Pal."  
  
The scanner blinked twice again and Michael had a hard time wiping the grin off his face as he walked toward Gorham Pharmaceuticals a block away.  
  
  
  
Gorham Pharmaceuticals took up the entire top floor of the fifty two story office building. Michael made his way through the lobby and boarded the elevator with a half dozen other people, all getting off below the thirty third floor. He pushed the button for the thirty eighth floor. He would continue up when he was alone. No one needed to know where he was headed. It seemed to take an eternity for everyone to reach their floors and he was at last alone.  
  
He wasn't sure what he would say when he got there. Looking down at his black pants and black leather jacket he knew that he didn't look the corporate type. The elevator continued upward, a computer verbally counting each floor. God, he would go crazy in minutes if Kitt's voice sounded like that. The voice announced fifty-two and the doors opened.  
  
New money was the first thought that came to mind as Michael stepped out of the elevator. Despite the fact that money meant very little to him, he had grown to appreciate the finer things that money could buy. He was constantly surrounded by it at the Foundation. From the furnishings and decorations to the Sterling Silver tea set Devon proudly displayed on his desk. Expensive reminders of Wilton Knight's millions. And yet nothing looked out of place or garish. But garish was written all over the fifty second floor. The walls were painted a deep mauve color with white trim and white ceiling. The floor was covered in deep piled white carpeting with black granite walkways and small black granite islands where overstuffed white and mauve furniture sat. No one at any time had a reason to actually step foot on the carpeting. He counted six white doors, and at the end of the granite walkway a set of highly polished black double doors. That, Michael assumed, would be the main office of the Gorhams.  
  
The place seemed to be deserted. The large black framed reception desk with glass top that stood on an island of black granite to the left of the elevator was empty. The phone didn't ring, the fax machine didn't hum. It was as if it were a holiday for Gorham Pharmaceuticals.  
  
Michael slowly made his way toward the double doors, realizing as he got closer that they were ajar and someone was inside. He raised his hand to knock when he suddenly heard a woman's voice raised in anger.  
  
"I don't give a damn how close they are. They won't find out until it's too late."  
  
Michael stepped back. He brought up his comlink and whispered, "Kitt, can you get this on tape?"  
  
"Yes, but barely," came the hushed response. "Can you get closer?"  
  
"No. Crank up the reception as high as you can. We can deal with the distortions later."  
  
"It's done. And Michael…"  
  
"I know," Michael grinned, "be careful."  
  
A man's voice joined the woman's, just as angry. "You may not give a damn, but I do. We've come to far already to lose it all because of this. I say we cut our losses now and get the hell out."  
  
"You've always been a coward, Steven. At the least little sign of trouble you pack your bags and run. If we'd stayed just one more year at Newburg we wouldn't be in this mess."  
  
"We wouldn't be in this mess if you hadn't hired Crestview.!"  
  
Michael's heart skipped a beat. Was he about to hear everything? He waited and listened intently. The voices grew shriller inside. The woman was near hysteria.  
  
"Me?! You stupid fool! I saved our asses with Crestview. We would have had every environmental agency in the whole world on our doorstep if I hadn't hired Crestview. Not to mention the FDA and every politician who wanted to make a name for himself."  
  
"I told you I was going to dispose of it. You didn't have to stick that damn long nose of yours into it. I had it all arranged. No one would have known anything. Instead five people are dead and we have The Foundation For Law and Government sniffing up our butts."  
  
"Alright…Alright. Let's just calm down. The truck will be here tonight. In three days this will all be a bad memory."  
  
"I still want out, Dorothy. I've had enough of you, enough of Gorham. I've already thought about it. I'll give you three years to get the San Francisco site up and running to full production then I want my half. And don't" he warned, his voice dropping an octave, "think about stabbing me in the back. If anything happens to me you won't last twenty four hours. And that is a promise I will take to the grave."  
  
Michael heard feet shuffling and the door swung open.  
  
"Who the hell are you?!" Dorothy Gorham was tall, slender, in her mid thirties and exceedingly mad. She wore a cream colored jumpsuit with a huge gold and diamond pendant hanging from a thick gold chain that must have weighed three pounds. Her blonde hair was piled atop her head and secured with a gold string and more diamonds.  
  
"Oh, hey, I'm sorry," Michael grinned, fumbling around his pockets for a non existent business card. "My name's Barry, Barry Webster. I've been hitting all the offices here. You certainly have a knack for decorating. This has to be the best floor in the whole damn place, and that's saying something because this place is huge. You know how many business are here? I must'a started three hours ago. In fact I've probably logged more hours in that elevator of yours than…"  
  
"I asked you who you are." Dorothy demanded. Steven Gorham steeped out of the office behind Dorothy. He too was tall, at least six two. He wore kaki pants a light blue shirt with the collar open and black pullover sweater. He looked like he was about to head to the golf course. He was about to say something when Dorothy glanced at him and he took a step back. Dorothy Gorham was definitely the dominate sibling.  
  
"Barry Webster. I work for Bonnie's Best Windows. Actually I don't do windows myself. I just go from business to business drumming up business. Hey, that rhymes. I'll have to use that more often. I ran out of business cards two floors down. Did I tell you how many businesses there are in this building? Anyway we do the best windows in town. We got this special formula that keeps them cleaner longer. You know how bad it is around here with the fog and all."  
  
"This is a private floor Mr. Webster. How did you get here?" Dorothy looked over his shoulder at the empty reception desk, a dark shadow crossing her face. Someone was in deep trouble.  
  
"I just pressed the button and the elevator door popped open. Sorry if I intruded. But while I'm here," he continued to grin, "I might as well tell you about our service. We've got the best prices and…"  
  
"Get out Mr. Webster before I call security."  
  
"Security?" Michael's grin faded, "Hey you don't need to do that. I was just trying to sell you a service."  
  
"Get off this floor and out of this building, now."  
  
Michael raised his hands in defeat, "Ok, Ok, I can take a hint. But just think what your missing next time you look out on that beautiful Golden Gate Bridge and you see nothing but dirt and Seagull droppings."  
  
"Out!" Dorothy roared.  
  
As Michel stepped into the elevator he called back, "Just remember Bonnie's Best windows."  
  
As the door closed her heard Dorothy yell at Steven. "Get someone on him now. If he's a window washer I'm the Queen of England."  
  
  
  
Michael cursed the steel cage he rode down in. The elevator blocked his transmission to Kitt. It was a smooth ride until he hit the thirty second floor then the car began to stop, at every floor it seemed, until the elevator was filled to capacity. Nearly a head above everyone else Michael watched as each new person boarded, wondering if they were his new tail.  
  
Finally the elevator's computer announced "First Floor Lobby" and everyone piled out, most of them heading for the front exit. Michael stayed with the crowd and walked outside heading right, toward the Bay. He adjusted his jacket collar giving him an opportunity to speak to Kitt.  
  
"Hey, Pal, I think I've picked up a tail. Follow me but keep out of sight."  
  
"I'm on my way, Michael. Be careful."  
  
"Don't worry, Kitt, I'm in no mood for heroics." And that was the truth. His ribs ached as he hurried along the street being jostled by tourists and locals alike. The smoke he had inhaled left him panting for air when he would normally not even be winded. He continued up Market Street toward the Embarcadero. He regretted not having any money on him, he could have easily hopped a bus or cable car. He looked around trying to pick up his tail. From the corner of his eye he spotted Kitt slowly traveling West with him. He continued on, stopping occasionally to look into a store front allowing him a look at the people around him. Then he spotted him. Thirty yards behind. He had gotten on the elevator on the twenty- forth floor.  
  
"Kitt, thirty yards behind me. Red hair, brown blazer. He's my tail."  
  
"I'll run a check on him, Michael."  
  
Michael continued walking. He entered Macy's Department store and headed for the escalator. He found men's fashions and grabbed a pair of pants and a shirt off the rack and disappeared into the fitting room.  
  
"Kitt…? he whispered.  
  
"He followed you into the store, Michael."  
  
"You got an ID on him yet?"  
  
"Arnold Herrera, he's got a rap sheet a mile long, all petty thief."  
  
"Looks like he's moved up in the world. Can you get a lock on him?"  
  
"I'm sorry, Michael, there is too much interference. But I may be able to lend a hand another way."  
  
"I'll take anything you've got."  
  
"I've just informed security that they have a potential shoplifting incident in progress."  
  
"Let me guess. He fits Herrera's description."  
  
"To the letter, Michael."  
  
"What would I do without you, Pal?"  
  
"I shudder to think. Security has spotted him on the second floor – men's shoes."  
  
"Thanks, Kitt."  
  
Michael left the fitting room walking as fast as he could toward the down escalator without attracting attention to himself. As he stepped onto the first moving step he spotted Herrera running toward him. Herrera bumped into an old woman wrestling with two huge bags and knocked her into the shoe rack. Angry voices rose up. Customers tried to help the old woman to her feet while others started running after Herrera. Michael picked up his pace down the escalator steps sliding past irate customers, their arms stuffed with boxes and bags. Herrera made it to the escalator shoving people aside as he ran down the steps toward Michael. Men in business suits surrounded the bottom of the escalator, security, all waiting for Herrera. Michael smiled as he passed between them seeing another group form at the top of the escalator. Herrera was trapped.  
  
  
  
Kitt was waiting for him at the curb as he exited the store. He jumped into the driver's seat and pulled away before a traffic cop could site him.  
  
"Thanks, Kitt." he sighed.  
  
"Your welcome, Michael. Where to now?"  
  
"Anywhere. We need to regroup here. Get me Devon."  
  
"Right away. Michael, Devon appears to be out of his car, I've left a message."  
  
  
  
  
  
Devon fidgeted in the overstuffed black leather couch outside Senator Ross's office. This was the second time he was forced to wait, and he disliked it. In his position at the Foundation he was the one who forced people to wait for him, something he would try to amend now that he knew how it felt.  
  
The Senator's office was on the twelfth floor of the Federal Building in downtown Sacramento. It had taken Devon less then an hour to travel from San Francisco but more then two hours waiting for Ross.  
  
When the door finally opened his mood was sour. Everything about this case disturbed him. Beyond the fact that five people had lost their lives in a short period of time he couldn't nudge the feeling in the pit of his stomach that there was something much bigger going on here than anyone knew. Michael Knight, as usual, had stepped into a hornets nest and this time there was no way of knowing how many people would be stung before it was over.  
  
"Mr. Miles, come in. I'm sorry to have kept you waiting, but it couldn't be helped." Senator Ross was short, heavy set and favored a shoestring tie around his neck. He offered Devon a seat and dropped into his overstuffed chair, the springs groaning as he settled in. "I was wondering," he said as he poured himself a glass of water from a pitcher at his side, "how long it would be before you paid me a visit."  
  
"Then I assume you know why I'm here," Devon replied, his face masking his automatic dislike for the man.  
  
"Yes. Unfortunate set of events. Sylva Sidney was a lovely girl. I was deeply saddened when I learned of her death."  
  
"I'm sure you were, considering how hard you tried to get in touch with her."  
  
"That's a personal matter, Mr. Miles."  
  
Devon arched an eyebrow. "Miss Sidney is dead, along with four other people. I believe it is time to set personal feelings aside."  
  
Senator Ross sat back in his chair steepleing his fingers beneath his chin, "I've done my research on you and your organization, Mr. Miles. I find it rather humorous that you would equate my privacy issues with Miss Sidney as romantic when you yourself harbor a secret: Michael Knight."  
  
Devon shifted in his chair. "What does Michael Knight have to do with this?"  
  
"Everything. The minute he found Sylva Sidney in the alley he became a central figure."  
  
"In what?" Devon snapped. He disliked being toyed with.  
  
Ross pressed a combination lock on the bottom drawer of his desk and pulled out a file. Devon stared at the folder, its front cover labeled F.B.I.: Classified.  
  
"F.B.I.? Isn't that rather duplicitous?"  
  
Ross smiled coldly. "Politics has been an excellent cover for many years. And I hope it remains so for many more. I've been a Senator for six years, an F.B.I. agent for twenty seven. I've worked on a need to know basis my entire career. I'm only exposing myself to you now because I need you. I need Michael Knight. I'm counting on your sense of discretion and fair play to keep my secret."  
  
"And your constituents? Would they have voted for you if they knew you were F.B.I.?"  
  
"Of course not," he snorted.  
  
"I thought not. I can not promise you in good conscious that I will keep your secret. You are breaking the very foundations of the laws you espouse to honor."  
  
"Thank you for your honesty. But there is more at stake here than just my career. When your Michael Knight came upon Sylva Sidney he became part of a ticking time bomb. A bomb that is due to explode any time now." He put his hand atop the file, "Two years ago a red flag went up during a routine tax audit of Gorham Pharmaceuticals. The figures didn't match. The I.R.S. contacted us and we began an investigation. We kept a low profile, sent in an agent to sniff around. Nothing came up at first, just the usual under the table political crap. A year in prison and a hefty fine if convicted. We weren't after the petty stuff. We knew they were into something big, we just didn't know what. We still don't. Just that all hell is about to break loose soon. Our first break came six months ago when they fired Randall Sullivan."  
  
Devon nodded, "That's when Sylva Sidney learned of the story and approached Sullivan."  
  
"Not exactly. We knew Sullivan was our key to breaking Gorham wide open. We watched him for awhile. Set up meetings. But he was scared. He would only tell us so much and then clam up. We had to gain his trust."  
  
Devon stared at Ross as the realization hit him, "Sylva Sidney was one of yours?"  
  
Ross nodded. "She was deep undercover at the paper. Broke a lot of stubborn cases for us, and turned out to be a damn good writer too. Look," Ross sat forward his shoelace necktie tapping the top of his desk, "she was onto something big. She was about to come in when she was killed. Everything she knew died with her."  
  
Devon was suddenly angry. "You allowed Michael to continue on, knowing how dangerous this was without warning him?"  
  
"He's doing a better job than any of us."  
  
"He was nearly killed, twice. How dare you use him like that. If you had come to us with…"  
  
"With what? We know enough about Michael Knight to know he's a loner. If he even got wind that the F.B.I. was involved he would have walked."  
  
"Could you blame him?"  
  
"Right now I don't give a damn what you think of me, or the F.B.I. I have a powder keg ready to explode in my face and I'll do anything to stop it. And no matter what you think Knight's reaction will be when he finds out about us, he's in too deep to pull out now. I saw it in his eyes the night Thai House blew up."  
  
Devon sat back in his chair, seemingly no end to the surprises, "You were there?"  
  
The Senator nodded, "The old man was one of mine too."  
  
"My God, I hope this fight is worth the cost."  
  
"Believe me, Mr. Miles," Ross said as he began stuffing the file in a plain manila envelope, "we have to win this. The alternative is not acceptable. Take this. Read it through. Everything in there is confidential. For you and your staff's eyes only. Put aside what ever you may think of me for the time being. This is far too important to let politics or personal dislikes get in the way."  
  
Devon headed for the door, still stunned.  
  
"You will keep me informed of any new findings won't you, Mr. Miles." It was not a question.  
  
Devon declined to answer and just let the door close silently behind him.  
  
  
  
Michael pulled into a fast food hamburger joint and ordered lunch. He wasn't hungry but he knew he had to have something on his stomach. "Get me Devon," he said around a mouth full of French fires.  
  
"Please, Michael, don't speak with your mouth full, it's very undignified. If you were attempting to ask me to get Devon for you may I suggest you finish your lunch first?"  
  
"You know, Kitt, you are a real pain sometimes."  
  
"I believe I will take that as a compliment."  
  
The moment Michael swallowed the last fry Devon was on the monitor.  
  
"Yo, Devon."  
  
"Michael, we must meet, immediately." Devon's face looked ashen.  
  
"What's wrong?"  
  
"I can't go into detail now. I have taken a room at the St. Francis Hotel, room 1704. Meet me there as soon as possible, and make sure you are not followed."  
  
"OK. I'll be there as fast as I can."  
  
"Hurry Michael, time may be running out."  
  
The screen went black leaving Michael staring at a blank screen. "What the hell is going on?"  
  
"The sooner we get you to the hotel, the sooner we will know."  
  
"Right. Pull out all the stops, Pal, I don't want anyone tailing us."  
  
Michael felt the laser restraints tighten around his chest and stomach reawakening his throbbing ribs and knife wound as they pulled out onto the street.  
  
  
  
Despite the fact that speed was of the essence, Kitt also was aware of the need to disappear into the fabric of the city. With a color coded map of the city depicting one way streets in different colors he created a giant maze, up one street then down another, sometimes when there was no traffic heading the wrong way down a one way street. At one point Kitt thought he spotted a tail, but the car was soon lost in a mass of traffic when the lights went out on a busy corner, courtesy of Kitt's electrical jamming device. Michael sat back, frustrated at the time it was taking to get to the St. Francis. Devon sounded tense, nearly frightened. Unlike the stoic man he was accustomed to.  
  
It was decided, despite all the maneuverings to escape a tail, that Kitt would drop Michael off at a hotel two blocks from the St. Francis just as an extra precaution. Kitt would then park at another hotel three blocks away making a total of five hotels between him and the St. Francis.  
  
It was late afternoon and the fog began to roll in off the bay, lowering the temperature by fifteen degrees in the matter of half an hour. Michael zipped his leather jacket up and stuffed his hands in his pockets. As he entered the lobby of the St. Francis he couldn't help but notice it was one of the finest in the city. Even in the midst of chaos Devon liked to do things first class. He rode the elevator up to the seventeenth floor, looking over his shoulder to make sure he wasn't followed and rapped gently on room 1704.  
  
The door opened and Devon pulled him in, "You are certain you were not followed?"  
  
"If we were, they are either magicians or ghosts. Kitt dropped me off two blocks from here and he's parked uptown."  
  
"Good. We can not be too cautious."  
  
Michael couldn't help but notice Devon's hair was disheveled and his normally crisp attire was wrinkled and sweat stained.  
  
"Amen to that." Bonnie smiled humorlessly, sitting at a small table next to the closed balcony door, the drapes shut tightly.  
  
"Bonnie?"  
  
"She flew in on the Foundation's cooperate jet this morning and arrived only minutes ago." Devon explained, his voice unusually edgy.  
  
"I spent two hours taking a tour of the city making sure I wasn't followed."  
  
Michael shucked his jacket and sat on the edge of the bed, "Where's Donna?"  
  
"Safe at the Foundation. Michael, I may have found the key." She opened her laptop computer on the table and typed in a series of directions. "Sylva stored all her information on two micro chips embedded in the eyes of her stuffed dog."  
  
"You're kidding."  
  
"It took me all night to decipher the code. I finally broke it early this morning."  
  
"A micro chip is pretty sophisticated for a local reporter on a second rate newspaper."  
  
"Not," Devon said, throwing the F.B.I. file on the bed next to Michael, "if she was an undercover agent."  
  
Stunned, Michael picked up the folder labeled *'F.B.I.: Classified*.  
  
"Sylva?"  
  
Devon nodded, "She was the one who approached Randall Sullivan. Unbeknownst to me, or anyone else, the F.B.I. has been involved in this."  
  
Michael sat up straight, "For how long?"  
  
"Months. They've had operatives undercover for more than five months, as soon as they became suspicious of Gorham Pharmaceuticals."  
  
"You said agents."  
  
"The old bartender was her contact."  
  
"Damn." Michael began leafing through the file.  
  
"I've gone through that, cover to cover twice, Michael. If even a portion of it is true we are facing a monumental ecological disaster."  
  
Michael tossed the file aside, "How?"  
  
"When Gorham Pharmaceuticals first developed their new hypertension drug they found they had also developed a new waste material, one that could not be disposed of in the normal manner. It would have taken millions of dollars of research to develop the proper disposal."  
  
"Let me guess, they by- passed the proper disposal."  
  
Devon nodded. "They secretly stockpiled the waste and routed waste from another production line. When the EPA did their monthly inspections they gave Gorham the green light to proceed."  
  
"Where are they stockpiling it?"  
  
"The F.B.I. doesn't know. But they do know that it exists and they are getting ready to dump it."  
  
"They're right. It's all here." Bonnie said, reading the text she had deciphered early that morning. "It's a form of Bromomethane, but one hundred times more lethal. If it is released into the air or water it could contaminate the area for hundreds of years not to mention the immediate effects."  
  
"Which are?"  
  
"A whole plethora of medical conditions: Headache, weakness, nausea at first. Then fluid builds up in the lungs. After prolonged or excessive exposure: muscle tremors, seizures, kidney damage, nerve damage and even death. Michael, wherever they dump this, it will cause massive destruction."  
  
Michael felt a cold shiver run down his spine. The Gorham's were obviously greedy and callous enough to go through with something as heinous as dumping contaminated waste. It had been done before, but never with waste as destructive as this. "How do they plan on transporting the stuff?"  
  
"Most likely in liquid form. Probably by truck, rail, even underground pipes."  
  
Devon shook his head, "Underground pipes would attract too much attention. Railway cars are inspected randomly. They wouldn't take the chance. It has to be by truck."  
  
"That's it." Michael jumped off the bed, "Bonnie, check all the trucking companies from coast to coast. I'll bet Crestview pops up."  
  
"Brilliant, Michael." Devon rushed over to stand behind Bonnie. "But," Devon's enthusiasm waned quickly, "even if we know how they are going to transport it how do we know where they plan to dump it?"  
  
"We'd better figure it out fast, because they start dumping tonight." Michael said flatly.  
  
Devon snapped his head up, "How do you know that?"  
  
"I overheard Dorothy and Steven Gorham this afternoon. They talked about the operation taking three days. Bonnie, can you give me a hard copy of Sylva's document?"  
  
"Sure, it'll just take me a second."  
  
"What do you have in mind?"  
  
"Maybe there's something there we missed."  
  
As Bonnie continued to search for Crestview Trucking, Michael poured over Sylva's notes. They were carefully detailed, each meeting she had, time, date, contact. "Here!" Michael stabbed his finger on one of the notes. "She met with Randall Sullivan. He was concerned that contaminated runoff would reach the Bay within four years. Four years… Devon, the Gorham's plan on selling their new office building in three."  
  
"A year before…"  
  
"Dear God. They plan to hide it in the construction of the building."  
  
"Here it is." Bonnie said, her voice trembling, "Overland Tanker Trucks formally known as Crestview. They changed their name three months ago. No wonder we couldn't find them."  
  
Devon reached for the phone, "I'll contact the F.B.I."  
  
"No. Someone blew Sylva's cover, the old man's too. We can't take the chance that they have a mole of their own there."  
  
"You may be right, Michael. What do you propose to do?"  
  
Michael grabbed his jacket, "Head down to the construction site and wait for a water truck."  
  
"You can't hand this single handedly." Devon protested.  
  
"I know that, but if they get scared off who the hell knows where they'll dump the stuff. I'll go in, confirm that it's the dumping site. Meanwhile you contact all the proper agencies. Bonnie, how much of this waste do you think there is?"  
  
"I don't know. It could be thousands of gallons."  
  
"More than one truck load?"  
  
Bonnie began typing before Michael finished his sentence. "I'll contact the Highway Patrol, have them on the lookout for Overland Tankers."  
  
Michael slipped his jacket on, "Good. Make sure they just tail them, no seizures." and headed for the door.  
  
"Michael!" Devon was beside him, "please, be careful. There is a lot at stake. One wrong move and…"  
  
"I know. No heroics," he grinned, "I promise."  
  
As the door closed behind him Devon whispered, "God speed, Michael."  
  
  
  
The fog had continued to roll in, driven by a cold wind off the ocean. Kitt raced through the least traveled streets of San Francisco, his headlights off, relying on his sensors to navigate.  
  
"Michael, are you sure this is a good idea, going in alone?" Kitt asked, his voice edgy with fear. He knew the answer. He just hoped against hope that Michael would think more about himself this time than the perfect strangers that he risked his life for, time and again.  
  
"It's the only way, Pal. If they even get a whiff of the authorities they'll high tail it. We can't let them disappear and dump that waste somewhere else."  
  
"I know, Michael." Kitt couldn't tell him about the bad feeling he had, the nagging uneasiness he had since the first moment they found Sylva Sidney dead in the alley. "One mile, Michael."  
  
Michael couldn't see a thing out the windshield, just stick swirling fog.  
  
"Twenty seconds, Michael."  
  
"Silent mode, Kitt."  
  
The engine noise suddenly dampened down to a faint hum. The car pulled to a stop and Kitt killed the engine. Through the thick fog Michael could barely make out the beads of light stretched across the open basement level. It appeared they were working late tonight.  
  
"Kitt give me a scan. Who and what's down there."  
  
"I'm sorry, Michael, I can't get a fix on anything. There appears to be too much interference."  
  
"From what? You could scan it just fine two days ago."  
  
"I don't understand. Something is jamming my signal. It could be anything. Perhaps you should reconsider…."  
  
"We're here now." Michael opened the door and slid out closing it again as quietly as he could. "I'm just going to have a quick look." He whispered, "When I give you the word alert Devon."  
  
"Yes, Michael. And Michael…Please be careful."  
  
"I will, Kitt, promise." He patted the warm silk finish of Kitt's door and wished like hell he could have stayed in the warm safety of the car. As he pushed away from the car he realized this was the journey Sylva Sidney had set into motion the moment he first saw here lying in the garbage strewn alley. Tonight he would, one way or the other, break her story wide open, be it for the F.B.I. or the great investigative reporter she became.  
  
It was the coldest night since they'd been there. The temperature was in the thirties, with the wind chill factor bringing it into the low teens. He zipped his jacket around him and drew on his black leather gloves.  
  
He made his way across the dirt skirt surrounding the construction site, keeping as low as possible. He doubted anyone could see him in the heavy fog, but, it also meant that he could not see them. He felt for the cold cement pad and hopped up on the four foot base. From here he could see the lights dangling over the pit, the wind swaying them wildly in the swirling fog. He heard voices to his right, and as he rounded a cement interior wall he saw a circle of light at the far end of the site, just beyond the lip of the basement pit. Highlighted in the light he saw a thirty foot mound of dry cement powder and a huge stationary cement mixer. Michael stared at the dry cement in disbelief: that was how they were going to hide the waste, use the contaminated water to mix the cement.  
  
"Kitt?" he hissed. No answer. "Can you read me?"  
  
Only static. He swallowed back the rising panic. He had to get back to Kitt, Devon had to know what was happening here. They could no longer afford the luxury of catching Gorham red handed. They had to seize the trucks before they got here.  
  
Suddenly a new voice rang through the construction, shrill and demanding. Michael recognized it immediately, Dorothy Gorham. "What the hell is the hang up? Where are the trucks?" She wore a heavy lavender ski parka and matching stretch pants. Her hair was swept beneath a fur lined hat. If not for the seriousness of the situation it would have been comical.  
  
"They're on their way." Niemi, the construction foreman Michael had met as the seismic inspector, walked out of the shadows, "traffic's backed up on all the bridges because of this damn fog."  
  
"I don't give a damn if we're in the middle of a tornado," she shouted, "we have three trucks to unload in three days. There's a thousand dollar bonus for every man here if we get this done on time."  
  
Michael heard a roar of excitement from a dozen men he couldn't see, all hidden in the depths of the thick fog. He slowly backed up. He had gotten what he came for. It was up to Devon now to deploy the authorities.  
  
Suddenly a black clad figure ran past him, nearly brushing his leg. As he entered the circle of light Michael recognized him: Arnold Herrera, the tail he had picked up this afternoon.  
  
"Knight's car is parked out front!" he yelled.  
  
"Damn it!" Dorothy spun around, searching the building, "What the hell is he doing here?" Her voice cracked with anger. "Find him! It's another thousand dollars to the man who catches him. I don't care how you do it." She pushed past Niemi and unlocked a drawer on the side of the cement mixer pulling out a semi automatic. "You know how to use this?" He nodded and Dorothy shoved it into his hands. "Anyone else know how to handle a weapon?" A half dozen men moved into the light. "Listen to me," she yelled, "Knight could ruin everything. Not only could you loose all your money you could all land in jail."  
  
Michael felt a chill run down his spine. She was inciting a lynch mob. He didn't stand a chance if he was caught. Money and the threat of jail time spurred them on. He had to get back to Kitt, somehow.  
  
"You three men," Niemi pointed to the only three who had not taken a weapon, "take care of that car of his."  
  
  
  
Kitt knew something was wrong. He heard voices rising in anger. Michael was still not back and no matter how hard he tried he could not clean up the transmission enough to get a signal to him. It was time to alert Devon. Michael could be in trouble. He opened a direct line to Devon at the hotel. Nothing. Just more static. Fear nudged at his CPU. He tried the semi, then the Foundation, still nothing. He was blocked. Something was jamming his transmissions. If Michael didn't arrive soon he would have to disobey a direct order and move far enough away from the interference to contact Devon. But that would leave Michael alone. What if he was hurt? What if he had been captured? Kitt's CPU began reeling with the possibilities. It was his responsibility to protect Michael, his paramount directive in life. But he also knew the ramifications if Michael failed. Thousands of people could be effected. In the years since he was first programmed he had grown, found that at times he had to make decisions that went against his initial programming. And while his prime directive was still to protect Michael, he also learned that sometimes sacrificing oneself for the better of thousands was the right thing to do. He would wait just a few more minutes.  
  
  
  
So involved was he in trying to access Michael's comlink that Kitt didn't notice the backhoe moving into position behind him in the heavy fog. Suddenly he felt a tremendous thump and his back wheels were spinning freely in the air, suspended two feet off the ground by two tines of the massive tractor.  
  
  
  
"Michael!" He desperately tried to rock the car, free himself, but he was helpless. Without traction from his back tires he would hang here in this undignified position until someone decided to let him down. Guilt soared through his CPU. He had failed Michael miserably.  
  
  
  
Michael hugged the cold cement wall, keeping in the deep shadows as much as possible. He had to reach Kitt. Nine men, led by Niemi had spread out through the building scouring every inch. Icy wind tugged at his hair as he leaned his head out from behind the wall. Dorothy and now Steven Gorham were nervously pacing in front of the cement mixer.  
  
"I told you we should have cut our losses when we could," he whined, "now look at us."  
  
"Shut up, Steven," she snapped, "everything's under control. Knight doesn't have a chance."  
  
"It's not just Knight. Everything's gone to hell. What if he got a message off to…"  
  
"He won't. He can't. There's a high frequency radio dish on top of that girder," she pointed up into the swirling fog. "nothing can get in or out."  
  
"Damn it." Michael hissed under his breath, that's why Kitt's scanners were acting up. Dorothy Gorham didn't miss a trick. Every detail had been planned. He slid back into the shadows willing himself to relax. He had to buy some time, at least two hours. If Devon didn't hear from him in that length of time he would get suspicious and send in the troops. He heard the sound of a diesel engine lumbering toward them and the hiss of air breaks. The first water tanker was here. He had to work fast. Dorothy and Steven ran toward the tanker leaving the cement mixer unattended. He took a deep breath and darted across the floor, keeping low to the ground, praying no one would see him in the open and slipped beneath the mixer. He had to incapacitate the machinery somehow. He dug his pen knife out of his jacket pocket and crawled out from beneath the mixer looking for the starter button. All heavy equipment had a failsafe key to shut down the system in case of emergencies. He considered this an emergency. He found the keyhole and jammed the knife blade inside breaking off the blade at the base of the keyhole. The entire key mechanism would have to be replaced before the mixer could be turned on.  
  
"Hey You!" Michael froze. He turned slowly. Two men pointing semi automatics stood twenty feet from him in the swirling fog. They looked nervous, their eyes wide with adrenalin, their rifles held awkwardly. They weren't professionals, just construction crewmen worked into a frenzy by Dorothy Gorham and the prospect of more money than they had ever seen in their lives. He raised his hands slowly.  
  
"Take it easy." He grinned, "Someone could get hurt with those things."  
  
"Shut up!" the man to Michael's left shouted. "On the ground, face down." Michael obeyed. They were too nervous, too unpredictable. "Hands behind your back." Again Michael obeyed. The cold cement stung his check. He heard footsteps vibrating through the cement pad and saw a lavender high heeled boot a split second before he was kicked viciously in the temple. "Dorothy!" he heard Steven Gorham complain through a haze of pain and disorientation, "what the hell are you doing?"  
  
"He nearly ruined everything." She snapped. "Tie him up."  
  
Michael felt his wrists tied securely behind his back with heavy gage wire and then he was dragged to his feet.  
  
"Well, if it isn't Barry Webster…or is it Michael Knight?" Dorothy asked, her face inches from his. She looked pathetically out of place in her lavender fur lined hat and parka. A bad joke if it were not so deadly serious. "A little early to be drumming up customers isn't it?" Her black eyes sparkled with cruel excitement. "The place isn't even finished."  
  
"You can never be too early," Michael smiled back.  
  
She nodded toward Neimi and the foreman drove a fist hard into Michael stomach. He doubled up, gasping for air when another fist plowed into his stomach and he heard and felt the sickening sound of a rib breaking. "You came so close to ruining everything, Michael." Dorothy continued, lifting his chin up with her long manicured fingernail, "You and that sniveling Randall Sullivan. I knew I should have had him killed immediately. But it seemed at the time that leaving him bankrupt and jobless was so much more satisfying. In hind sight it would have been so much easier. Then that bitch Sylva Sidney showed up." She nodded and Neimi threw another punch. Michael's knees buckled and he slumped to the cold concrete. "Throw him in the pit. We'll deal with him later. Just think Michael," she leaned down and ran her gloved fingers through his hair, "You will be just another one of the poor unfortunate workers who ends up entombed in a construction sight forever. It happens more often than you think."  
  
Neimi dragged Michael to his feet. "You really want to be a part of this?" Michael gasped. "With Sullivan and Sidney you are just an accomplice. Five to ten years max. But you kill me here, you're no better than they are. All of you!" he yelled to the workers. "You'll all be murders."  
  
"Shut him up." Dorothy raged.  
  
Neimi rabbit punched him in the back. Michael nearly collapsed, but he saw the stirrings of indecision in some of the faces.  
  
"Do you know what you're really doing here?" he yelled. "It's a death trap for everyone."  
  
"Remember the thousand dollars!" Dorothy yelled.  
  
"They're dumping contaminated waste water into the cement. You'll all be exposed."  
  
"Shut him up!" Dorothy hissed.  
  
"A thousand dollars won't mean much if you're dying in a jail cell from the poison being pumped in here. She's…" Niemi spun around catching Michael in the chin with his elbow. Michael went down hard, stunned.  
  
Neimi dragged him toward the gaping hole, hauling him up to his feet, ready to push him in. Michael could barely see the bottom through the swirling fog. Neimi nudged him once more and as he fell forward he lunged his body to the right landing hard on the ground. In the same movement he whipped his legs around catching Neimi at the knees. The foreman lost his balance and screamed as he went head first into the pit. A loud thud drifted up through the fog and Michael bolted to his right.  
  
Shots ran out, pinging off of steel guiders and lodging in concrete walls all around him as he tried to zig zag in the darkness. He yelped out in pain as a bullet caught him in the back, high on the left side above his shoulder blade. The impact drove him into the foreman's cluttered desk and he slid to the ground, painfully scrambling into the deep blackness beneath it.  
  
"He's hit!" Dorothy yelled. "He won't get far now." She reached out and grabbed the arm of Neimi's right hand man, "Patterson, you're foreman now," she declared, "get started on the cement, we've already behind schedule."  
  
Patterson nodded, pointing to three men, "You three," he ordered, "you're with me."  
  
"The rest of you fan out and look for Knight." Dorothy ordered. "You're all looking at sixteen years to life if he gets to the authorities."  
  
  
  
Michael pulled his long legs in as tight as he could beneath the darkness of the desk. He could feel his shirt and jacket soaking up blood. He couldn't reach the wound to pack it, he just prayed he could hang on long enough. He heard the sound of the diesel engine start up again and saw the tanker slowly pull into position next to the cement mixer. He waited for all hell to break loose when they found the key jammed.  
  
  
  
Kitt heard the shots ring out and cursed himself for allowing himself to be caught. He tried again and again to break through the static but it was too strong. He gunned his engine, his back tires spun uselessly. Michael's only hope now was Devon.  
  
  
  
Devon paced the hotel room, it had already been two hours and Michael had not reported in. He looked back at Bonnie pouring another cup of strong coffee.  
  
"Bonnie, open a channel to Kitt."  
  
"But Michael said…"  
  
"I know. But it's been two hours. I'm afraid something has gone drastically wrong."  
  
Bonnie nodded, looking up a minute later, "I can't get through." She said, her voice trembling, "there's too much interference. I've tried everything."  
  
Devon ran his hand through his hair, "Damn it. I knew I should never have allowed him to go. It was far too dangerous."  
  
"It was the only way, Devon. Do we call in the F.B.I. now?"  
  
"No. No Michael was right, they may have a mole. We must remember what is at stake here. We have to stop Gorham at all costs, even if that means putting Michael in further danger."  
  
"Then what do we do?"  
  
"Call this man," Devon ordered, writing a name down on a slip of paper, "he may be our only hope."  
  
  
  
Banks of high intensity lights switched on highlighting the swirling fog. Michael remained beneath the desk, trying to control his breathing. The pain of the wound pulsed in his head. He had to stay in control. This was not over yet, not while the tanker of wastewater still sat just feet away. He shivered as the temperature continued to drop. But despite the frigid temperatures he was bathed in sweat. He took a deep breath trying to clear his mind, but regretted it immediately as pain knifed through his broken ribs. Suddenly he heard voices raised in anger and knew they had discovered his knife blade in the cement mixer's lock. A smile of satisfaction crossed his lips. One step blocked. But five minutes later he listened in horror as the cement mixer roared to life. They must have overridden the fail safe mechanism somehow. He heard the sound of sand being shoveled into the mixer then the unmistakable sound of the tanker's pump engaging. His heart began to beat too fast. He was on the verge of blacking out. He forced himself to calm down, to take control.. One thing at a time. First, he had to free his hands somehow. He slid the back of his hands along the base of the wooden work bench, each movement sending shockwaves of pain through his shoulder and arm. But he pressed on. His right hand touched a protruding bolt and he wrapped one end of the wire binding his wrists around it and held the other piece of wire straight. He had to untwist the wire before he could loosen it enough to wriggle his hands free. It seemed to take an eternity. Twice he had to stop and take a breath to keep from passing out from the pain. One last twist and the wire separated. He jerked and twisted his wrists until the wire gave enough for him to slip his hands free. Gritting his teeth against the pain he grabbed his left arm and pulled it forward, feeling the bullet move inside the muscle. The pain was too much, he felt himself passing out. He began slipping away from the protection of the desk when a black handed glove shoved him back.  
  
"Not now…" someone whispered, pushing him further beneath the desk, Michael recognized that voice through the ringing in his ears. He had heard it, just recently, but where? "Listen to me," the voice continued, "you've got to hang on. Help is on the way."  
  
"Who…" Michael tried to focus his eyes.  
  
"Don't worry about that now. Here, take this."  
  
Michael nearly chocked as a small pill was pushed in his mouth. He was forced to swallow it to get another breath.  
  
"Listen to me," the voice demanded, "I can't stay here. You've got to finish what Sylva started."  
  
"Wait!" Michael hissed weakly. He grabbed onto the gloved hand and the light from a searching flashlight lit up a black onyx ring with diamonds spelling T3E for a split second. The gloved hand was wrenched out of his hand and was now clamped around his throat.  
  
"Dorothy Gorham and her brother are only the tip of the iceberg." The voice whispered, "I can't blow my cover. It's up to you."  
  
And, as quickly as the figured had appeared, it was gone. Michael let his head fall back against the desk wall. He could feel the pill begin to work. He felt new energy in his muscles where there was none before. His mind began to clear, but he knew there was a price to pay for this new dose of energy. When the pill's effectiveness ran out he would drop like a rag doll.  
  
He took a deep breath and crawled out from beneath the desk, keeping to the deep shadows. First he had to destroy the radio dish. If he couldn't get through to Kitt, then Kitt was not getting through to Devon. He spotted Dorothy and Steven standing in front of the cement mixer waiting for the first of the contaminated water to mix with the dry cement. A plastic tarp had been sealed over the top of the cement mixer to keep the water vapor contained. One of the workers had carelessly propped his semi automatic rifle against the water tanker's wheel and walked away. He needed a distraction. He found a bucket of nails and tossed it into the darkness to his left. The clatter echoed through the construction site making everyone jump.  
  
"Over there," Dorothy screamed pointing toward the sound. "Get him, damn it. He's just one man."  
  
Michael staggered across the floor diving for the gun just as Dorothy spotted him. He strafed the top of the building not letting off the trigger until the gun was empty.  
  
"Kitt?" he gasped into the comlink.  
  
"Michael! Thank heavens. Are you all right? Your vital signs are…"  
  
"Not now, Kitt. Micro jam the tanker truck and cement mixer."  
  
The tanker truck immediately fell silent, the only sound coming from the water hissing in the pressurized hose. The mixer coughed once and the blades stopped turning, letting all the dry cement mix fall back to the bottom of the container.  
  
Silence filled the air. Dorothy looked down at him, anger distorting her face. "What the hell have you done, you son of a bitch?" she screamed. "Shoot him! Kill him!" She grabbed a semi automatic from the stunned workmen standing next to her and fired once, the bullet just creasing Michael's right shoulder.  
  
"No!" Steven bolted forward, reaching for the gun, "I won't let do it!"  
  
"You fool!" Dorothy raged, slamming the butt of the gun into Steven's shoulder. He lost his balance falling hard onto the cement floor. "How do you think we got here so fast? By playing nice?"  
  
Steven looked into her eyes seeing her for the first time, "I never thought...murder…"  
  
Michael struggled to his knees, his left arm hanging limply at his side, blood dripping down his right hand from Dorothy's bullet. "Think again," he shouted.  
  
Dorothy spun on him, "Shut up!"  
  
"Who," Michael yelled, "ordered Sullivan's death? Huh?"  
  
Steven turned pale. He began shaking his head, "…no…"  
  
"What about Sylva Sidney and the three at the Thai House?" Michael heard voices stirring in the background, were her men willing to follower her to death row?  
  
"That's five." Dorothy said coldly, slowly bringing up the semi automatic, aiming it straight for Michael's heart. "And you make six."  
  
"NO!" Steven lunged for her, knocking her arm as she pulled the trigger. The water hose leading from the tanker to the cement mixer burst in a shower of contaminated water as the bullet tore a hole through it. The spray soaked Michael and two construction workers. Dorothy jumped back, stunned, but before she could flee Michael reached out and grabbed her by the ankle pulling her off her feet. She landed hard on her left hip and he pulled her toward him directly into the spray.  
  
"No!" she shrieked, as the water soaked her clothes, "For God's sake, we'll die!"  
  
"You didn't care about the thousands of people who would die when this stuff started leaching out into the air and water supply." Michael hissed, drawing her closer.  
  
"Please, let me go." She screamed, struggling against his grip but he was too strong, driven by the pill and revenge. "What about Sylva and Kai Ping?"  
  
"Who the hell is Kai Ping? Look, I'll make it worth your while. I'll pay you anything you want."  
  
"It's too late." He growled, "can't you feel it already? It's getting hard to breath. Your head feels like its going to explode. In a few minutes you'll start puking up your guts."  
  
Steven hovered just beyond the growing puddle of contaminated water, "For God's sake man," he shouted, "let her go!"  
  
"Please…" Dorothy pleaded like a child, "…please…"  
  
The two other workers caught in the spray began to cough and gasp for air. The affects had begun. He could feel his own lungs filling up as if he were under water. Dorothy collapsed against him, withering in abject fear. How apt that she should die an agonizing death: the death that ultimately faced a thousand innocent lives if she were successful in her plan.  
  
Suddenly more lights came on, turning the black night to day. Shots were fired. Steven looked behind him, his jaw dropping. He ran to his right plowing into someone wearing a hazardous materials suit. Sirens filled the night air. Michael felt someone lift a blubbering Dorothy off him.  
  
"Hey, I knew I'd find you in the middle of this mess." Michael knew that voice. A figure leaned down close to his face and Michael recognized a grinning Detective Bickford behind the plastic headgear.  
  
"How?" Michael whispered.  
  
"Your boss gave me a call. Said I might like to get in on the action, seeing how this is all going down in my town."  
  
Figures clad in white suites gathered around. Michael felt himself falling into the blackness of unconsciousness. His last thought was that he had failed. He couldn't stop it. Dorothy, in her own way had won….  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
EPILOG  
  
  
  
The next two months were a nightmare. Michael awoke four days later in a specially designed room for hazardous contamination. He knew very little about what was going on only that he felt miserably ill and wanted nothing more than to get away from the annoying doctors and nurses who constantly bothered him, dressed from head to foot in strange white space suits. The effects of the toxins, while not permanent, left him weak and exhausted. It would take time to recover fully, given the fact that he also had a life threatening gun shot wound at the same time. For the first couple of weeks he often awoke to find either Devon or Bonnie, dressed in the now familiar space suite, sitting next to his bed holding his hand, wiping his brow as his body fought off the effects of the poison. They had explained, time and again, because he could only stay awake for short periods of time, how the two other tanker trucks had been commandeered and the drivers arrested. That all the waste material was accounted for and properly stored until a means of disposal was found. Everyone exposed to the toxic waste spent at least two weeks there getting medical treatment before being transferred to County Jail. Dorothy and Michael were confined longer because of their acute exposure.  
  
The Hazardous Materials team had cleaned up the construction sight. The water was contained to a small area around the tanker truck and easily vacuumed into specially designed canisters. The cold damp weather kept the air contamination down to acceptable limits, and the cement floor had prevented the water from leaking into the ground. The contaminated cement was broken up and stored along with the water. For safety sake the site would not be built upon for the next three years at which point if tests still showed no contamination construction could start again. But not by the Gorhams. Dorothy and Steven faced a long stay in federal prison.  
  
The question of who it was that helped him, the owner of the T3E ring, was never resolved. Kitt offered to look into it but Michael decided against it. The man was under deep cover, he had taken a big chance in helping Michael. The lest Michael could do was allow him to remain anonymous.  
  
This past week was the worst. Michael felt well enough to go home, except for a sore shoulder and mending ribs. But the doctors would not budge and Devon was being fastidiously correct, afraid of any undue health effects from the toxic exposure. To hear him tell it, he was surprised that Michael hadn't turned into some glowing creature out to destroy the world.  
  
"We have your room prepared for you at the Foundation." Devon said, "you will find it, for a change, neat and clean."  
  
Michael rolled his eyes, "Devon, I don't like neat and clean. I like messy and lived in."  
  
"Yes, well, I'm sure you will remedy that in record time. Oh, speaking of time, there is someone here to see you."  
  
Michael sighed and collapsed back into his pillows, he had seen a never ending parade of people stopping by to thank him, Donna, Fredrick DeNapoli, dressed in black jeans, black shirt open at the color and a very familiar black leather jacket, and Amos Hastings to name a few. Detective Bickford stopped by on more than one occasion. One time he stopped by with police mug shots of Clarence Epps and Kevin Distal. "I heard you were looking for these two guys. They just happened to get caught up in one of our sting operations. Thought it might cheer you up a bit."  
  
The door opened and Bonnie led a young woman in. Michael caught his breath. Tall and slender with long brown hair she was a younger version of Sylva Sidney.  
  
"Mr. Knight." She hesitantly approached the bed, "my name is Stacy Sidney. I wanted to thank you for helping my sister."  
  
Michael found it hard to find the words. "I didn't do anything..."  
  
"You believed in her when no one else did. You gave her back her good name." Stacy leaned down and gently kissed him on the cheek, "Thank you." She sat with him for awhile, talked about her sister, how someday she too was going to be a reporter. No one knew of Sylva's F.B.I. connection, and no one ever would.  
  
"Are you all right?" Kitt asked, soon after she left, "you're vital signs are…"  
  
"Quit worrying, Kitt. I'm fine." Michael raised his hand to once again look at his wrist watch, the one thing that kept him and Kitt together the past two months. "I just had a visitor."  
  
"I know." Kitt answered, "that was nice of her to come all this way."  
  
"Yea, it was, Pal." Michael looked up toward the ceiling, "You know, I don't think I'll ever forget the sight of Sylva lying in that alleyway."  
  
"Michael, forgive me for asking, but does the fact that she was an F.B.I. agent make her death any less painful?"  
  
Michael stared at the ceiling, "To be honest, Kitt, at first I felt betrayed. That I had been led to think that she was just an innocent… But no, it still hurts. She was a beautiful young woman left alone to die, no matter what her profession, why she was there, I'll never forget her."  
  
"Perhaps you are not meant to. Remember you asked me if I believed in ghosts?"  
  
Michael smiled, "Yea?"  
  
"I still don't believe in ghosts, but I think she will always serve as a reminder of who and what you are. Of why we exist."  
  
Michael nodded, suddenly feeling very sleepy. "Maybe…"  
  
"I believe the sleeping pill the nurse gave you a few minutes ago is taking effect," Kitt said gently.  
  
"No…" Michael slurred, "I'm still wide awake."  
  
"Of course you are, Michael."  
  
Michael fought to keep his heavy eyelids open, he hated sleeping his life away, "Ok," he conceded, "maybe I'll just take a short nap."  
  
"Very wise. Good night Michael. Pleasant dreams"  
  
As Michael drifted into sleep he continued to think about Sylva. Kitt was right, she was the epitome of everything he worked for at the Foundation, that he believed in. Perhaps that was why her death hit him so profoundly. No matter what the reason, he would carry her with him for a lifetime. 


End file.
